


Fódlan Flora: An Artist's Guide

by FunAndWhimsy



Series: Fódlan Flora [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adrenaline, Assassin Bernadetta von Varley, Canon Divergence - Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Dubious Consent, F/M, Golden route, Homecoming, Post-War, Prisoner Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 65,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26954215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunAndWhimsy/pseuds/FunAndWhimsy
Summary: Dimitri was a finely honed weapon, but here in the peace after the war he feels like little more than a broken arrowhead lodged in a healed wound - at best useless, and at worst a source of infection. Eager enough to give up his throne during the peace talks, he finds himself now without a purpose, spending his days drifting through the halls of the imperial palace wondering what, exactly, one is supposed to do when one loses the war yet survives.Bernadetta found comfort in her skills during the war, and the subsequent hunt for Those Who Slither In The Dark. Now no one needs her to bravely charge at an enemy, or find the best hiding place from which to take out a key figure, and she is free to do what she wants with the rest of her life. If only she had someone to tell her what that is.When Bernadetta takes Dimitri as an escort on a tour of Fódlan to look at interesting plants and find inspiration for her art and writing, she doesn't expect much more than a helpful companion who understands the value of peace and quiet. What she finds, though, is exactly what she's been looking for - and more.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Bernadetta von Varley
Series: Fódlan Flora [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065026
Comments: 14
Kudos: 53





	1. Peony

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a post-Verdant-Wind golden route where, after successful peace talks at Gronder Field, Edelgard is the Emperor of United Fódlan, the states of Leicester and Faerghus are ruled by council, Claude is King of Almyra, Rhea has retired to Zanado leaving Seteth to reform the church, and Byleth runs Garreg Mach and provides council to the various world leaders. It is 1188 and if things aren't entirely settled into the new normal, they are close enough to cause a little existential dread for everyone who hasn't figured out what _their_ new normal is.
> 
> Fic is complete and will be posted over the next 2-5 days, depending on how impatient I get.

"Bernadetta," Dimitri says, quiet even in the hush of the night, so his voice blends with the crackling of their campfire. "May I borrow your sewing kit?"

Bernadetta blinks for a moment, sure she's misheard him, but when she glances across the fire he's sitting there with his shirt in his lap, exposing a tear, so she pulls her pack close and rummages until she finds the leather case.

"I could take care of that for you," she says, but Dimitri shakes his head and holds his hand out.

"You're busy with your notes," he says. "I can manage, it's simple enough."

Bernadetta hands over the sewing kit and smiles. "I didn't know you could sew."

"Mercedes taught me the basics," Dimitri says. "It won't be pretty, but it should hold together."

That settled, Bernadetta turns back to her work, refining a sketch of a flower she noticed that morning through the underbrush. Dimitri must have torn his shirt when he insisted on going to pluck a bloom for her rather than making her crawl through the brambles herself, so she wouldn't mind doing his mending, but it's a nice change from the last time she traveled like this, during the war when everyone knew she enjoyed sewing so more nights than not she had a pile of Strike Force clothes to work through. The flower is already going brown at the very edges, she'll need to set it pressing soon if she wants to preserve it, but she wants to have a good drawing of its lovely round shape before she flattens it. Like most things in Faerghus, it's hearty, thick layers of petals radiating outward until she could use it as a bowl and be perfectly happy with her portion. 

Shape of it captured as faithfully as she can manage, Bernadetta sets her papers aside and pulls the dagger from her pack so she can slice the flower in half for easier pressing. Then she takes her pressing boards, unwraps the thick binding holding them tightly together, and sets each half of the flower in for pressing. She looks up to ask Dimitri to hold the boards so she can re-wrap them, since he's so much stronger, but he's looking at his shirt with such a dark expression she forgets all about it.

"Is something wrong?"

"It doesn't quite look right, does it?" he asks, and holds up his shirt for her to see; it's puckered all around the new stitches, and he's tied off big, clunky knots that will probably come apart in a matter of days. Oh dear.

"I can fix that for you," she says, and holds up her hand when he opens his mouth to protest. "Please? Next time one of us has a tear I can go over what Mercedes taught you and we can see where you're going wrong, but I don't want you going through all my thread."

"Fair enough," Dimitri says, and takes her pressing boards when he hands her his shirt. "I can do this, at least."

"You're very useful," Bernadetta says, "I promise."

"I don't - well," Dimitri says, and even in the firelight she can tell he's gone a little pink, so oddly uncomfortable with praise for someone who was going to have to deal with people fawning all over him his whole life if Edelgard didn't take his crown. He turns to the pressing boards like they require great focus, and Bernadetta finds herself smiling as she sets about mending his shirt. It's a nicer way to wind down before bed than taking notes, such a calming, rhythmic action that lets her brain wind itself down better than trying to remember every little thing she wanted to jot down. By the time she ties her thread off and tucks the loose end under, she's having to fight to keep herself from yawning; no matter how hard and rocky the ground is underneath her bedroll tonight, she'll have no trouble falling asleep.

"There we go," she says, and hands it over. Dimitri doesn't look anywhere near as tired as she feels, though he rarely does. Bernadetta has a feeling he doesn't really sleep, though she's known enough stubborn men to know she shouldn't say anything until it starts affecting their travels. "Almost as good as new."

"My thanks. I truly did not intend to - is that a lion?"

Dimitri runs his thumb over her stitching, blue thread against his blue shirt so it's a little bit of a secret. Bernadetta flushes - maybe she should have asked, she doesn't know Dimitri as well as she's known all the people she hides those little surprises for, he might not - oh, and maybe he doesn't like being associated with lions, maybe those aren't good memories for him, maybe - Bernie shakes her head. He'll tell her if he doesn't like it, and the next time one of them needs mending she can re-teach him how to do it if he doesn't like what she does. Dimitri isn't going to be mad at her.

"I used to do it for - well, for everyone, eventually," Bernadetta says. "It makes it a little stronger where it's torn, and when I was doing it for so many people during the war it kept it from getting boring. I wasn't really - force of habit, I guess."

"It's very clever," Dimitri says. "I see why you didn't want me wasting your thread, when it could be used for things like this."

"Oh, it's not - " Bernadetta blushes and looks down at her feet, no better at accepting compliments than Dimitri is. "I - thank you."

The fire crackles, then hisses, and Bernadetta looks up in time to see Dimitri prodding the logs with a long stick, so the flames nearly die down as they struggle to take hold of the fresh wood before leaping to life once again. He is still only in his undershirt, and Bernadetta can't look away from the play of light over his bare arm, shining lightly with sweat, muscled and scarred and so very poorly suited to the task of stirring a fire or mending a shirt. Dimitri is built like a weapon, for holding another weapon, and it's no wonder he was wandering the imperial palace so lost Edelgard leapt at the chance to find him a task, now that there's peace. The way the light dances over him is almost mesmerizing, so beautiful Bernadetta finds herself thinking about how she'd paint him, the way she usually only does looking at flowers, at tangles of underbrush, at sweeping mountains.

It's only when Dimitri clears his throat she realizes she's staring, and she tears her eyes away to see his cheeks have, once again, gone a little pink.

"I think I'll sit up for a little longer," he says, "but I can bank the fire if the light is too much."

"Oh, I like it," Bernadetta says, and rises from the boulder she'd been sitting on. "I've never been very good with the dark."

Dimitri nods, and prods at the fire a little more, and Bernadetta ducks into the tent and strips down to her own undershirt before settling down in her bedroll to fall asleep, lulled to an easy rest by the shadows dancing in the light of Dimitri's fire.

-

The closer they get to Fhirdiad, the quieter Dimitri gets; Bernadetta doesn't blame him, nor does she mind. It's hard for him, clearly, and since Bernadetta's currently on her way to Fhirdiad instead of ever going home to Varley she isn't going to push. So they ride in silence, and stop on occasion so Dimitri can show her an interesting plant ("I don't know much about it, but Dedue has pointed it out to me before.") that wouldn't have caught her eye at a distance, and they make camp when the sun is only just beginning to touch the horizon because it gets hard to camp closer to the city and for obvious reasons Dimitri would prefer not to stay at an inn this time.

Bernadetta takes advantage of the light to get her paints out so she can add color to some of the landscapes she's sketched so far, and lays out a blanket a little ways away from where Dimitri indicated he'd like to pitch their tent. He's agitated, all banked energy, so she doesn't bother to offer to help. There are things you learn about a person quickly when you travel together like this, and what she's learned so far is Dimitri needs hard work to wear himself out, and to do more than his fair share of the work to feel like he's contributing. It's easier not to ask, so he doesn't have to find a way to tell her no without being the kind of honest someone like Jeritza ("I'm not sure I can rest tonight without putting an axe to use, Bernadetta, and I think you'd prefer it be for making firewood.") would. So she fills her tin cups with water and sets about mixing paints to try to find the right colors for Faerghus as summer reaches its peak, when all the greens are reaching for their deepest tones, and loses herself in her brush strokes until she has a finished piece she's happy with. She finishes off the mixed paint in her sketchbook, adding little bits of color here or there until she's satisfied she hasn't wasted anything, and it's only when she heads for the river to clean her cups and brushes Bernadetta realizes how dark it is; sunset is nearly over. 

Dimitri is tending the fire when she gets back, his knife and a few bloody rags beside him along with meat from the birds he'd caught that morning. The tent is pitched, the firewood stacked much higher than they'll use, and his shoulders are less tense than they've been all day. Bernadetta trades her paints for cooking supplies and offers no apology for taking so long to start dinner because Dimitri doesn't expect one. He hardly seems to notice, anyway, staring off somewhere in the distance while she slices the breasts thin for quicker cooking and tosses them with some carrots from their supply and mushrooms they found a few days ago. Bernadetta doesn't like cooking out here as much as in a kitchen where she has plenty of time and tools and variety, but she's getting good at it, and she has their food served on tin plates quickly enough it seems to startle Dimitri. 

"Thank you," he says, and eats most of his portion while it's still hot enough to burn, like usual.

"If you don't mind," Bernadetta says, waiting for her own dinner to cool, "can I ask why you suggested we come to Fhirdiad first?"

Dimitri frowns, poking at the remains of his meal. "I understand you haven't been home for some time?"

"No," she says. "It wasn't very - I didn't - no, I haven't."

Dimitri nods. "Do you think you'll ever go home?"

"I'm sure I'll go to Varley again," she says, "but I don't think I'll live there."

"I'm worried if I don't return now, I never will," Dimitri says. "I don't wish to interfere, for anyone to think the rightful king is coming to check up on the governing council, or anything like that, but I - there are few places in this world I've been happy."

"Then I look forward to you showing me around," Bernadetta says. "And we can leave whenever you need to."

"I have no intention of interfering with your project," Dimitri says.

"I know," Bernadetta says. "But I can see the gardens anytime. I have friends on the council."

"Ah," Dimitri says. "Yes, of course. Felix."

Bernadetta opens her mouth to reply before what he said truly registers, and as soon as it does she closes it again, then takes a bite of pheasant to disguise how strange that must have looked. Dimitri is staring at her with his brow furrowed, so it must not have worked, but now she has to finish chewing before she can explain, which is awkward but a bit of a blessing.

"I meant Sylvain," she says. "But - well, I'm sure Felix wouldn't turn me down, just that he's not - that isn't - no."

Dimitri stands and begins gathering his dishes and the cooking pan to take to the river; it's a little dark to make the walk but he never seems to mind, and they can't leave the dishes overnight without attracting animals anyway.

"My apologies," he says. "I remember - my memory is fuzzy, at times."

"Oh, no, it's alright. You were supposed to be dead when we went our separate ways, I can't imagine you were keeping much track of anyone's Academy romances."

"So you were together, at one time? That wasn't a - trick isn't the correct word, but - "

"We traveled together after Edelgard's attack on the monastery," Bernadetta says. "For a few years, actually, it was - four years, almost, and then he got a letter from Sylvain asking us to come fight for Faerghus, and said no, and not long after that Hubert asked me to come home and fight for Edelgard and I said yes. The next time I saw him was at Gronder. It isn't - I really don't mind you bringing it up, it's just that there was so much else going on no one really noticed."

There are things she doesn't tell Dimitri, of course - that she cried all the way from the village they were protecting in Charon to Enbarr because she'd just ruined everything with the only person who would ever want her, that she only went home because she was so tired of fighting she would have done anything to end the war more quickly, that she had resolved to charge at Felix before anyone else could at Gronder because if she had to see him die it couldn't be by anyone else's hand - because it would be silly to assume he wants to hear them. She didn't say anything when they left Enbarr because he seemed to want to go to Fhirdiad so much she didn't want to make it awkward, and she's going to have to learn to have problems she doesn't run away from sometime, and she doesn't say it now, but he's looking at her with something not _exactly_ like pity but not exactly unlike it shining in his pretty blue eye and she thinks maybe he gets it. Or he's just sad thinking about the war, or the time he lost, or any of the million other things he has to be sad about.

"I only remembered you seemed to go well together," he says. "I'm sorry for bringing up something painful. Would you - I can take your dishes, if you'd like."

Bernadetta nods, and smiles as best she can at him, and he smiles weakly back at her when he takes her cup and plate and leaves her to the quiet of the fire. Bernadetta is very good at avoidance, it's her best natural talent and the one she's most carefully cultivated over the years, and she hasn't thought much, if at all, about seeing Felix again somewhere other than a battleground. Does he still think she's a traitor? Did he - was he ready to see her die, did he think he would have to do it? Will it be - what do you say to each other, after all of that?

It doesn't matter. Neither of them have to be the people the war made them anymore, no one does, so it doesn't have to matter Bernadetta only knows about breaking up from gossipy tea time with Dorothea and none of her stories make any sense for two mercenaries riding off in different directions to fight for different sides. And if there's one thing Bernadetta's good at, it's hiding, so if it's too hard she can get away with not dealing with it the way she always has. Bernadetta sighs and packs up her things, placing a few rocks on top of her painting as it finishes drying, and turns in for the night before Dimitri returns from the river. 

-

Bernadetta has a cloak Hubert gave her when the first war was over and the second about to begin and she needed to be able to move about in secret. It's much too small for Dimitri, but the hood was meant to be able to cover Bernadetta's face from any angle prying eyes might be looking and it's big enough to mostly conceal his eye patch and distinctive yellow hair as they ride through Fhirdiad. He wears his plain traveling cloak over Bernadetta's to hide how poorly the fabric covers his broad back, and pulls the black hood up from underneath, and he looks far more like someone Bernadetta would have been asked to keep an eye on in her brief mercenary days than a king of any kind. They still draw looks from passers-by, mostly in the outskirts, but Bernadetta didn't make any effort to conceal the imperial origin of her clothing, their packs, or their horses so she's fairly confident it's all people wary of two imperial strangers, not anyone about to give Dimitri attention he doesn't want.

His shoulders grow more tense as the day wears on and the roads become busier, as they draw close to the palace, so tense she can tell even under his too-many layers of traveling clothes. Stopping would only increase the odds he'd be recognized and there's no use asking if he's okay when she knows he isn't, entirely, but also knows what's wrong, so they just ride through lunch, through the city, and up to the heavy stone gates.

"Countess Varley," she says to the guard - she hates the title, but it hardly matters. They aren't looking at her, because the one time her hood can't hide Dimitri's face is when someone is looking at him straight on.

"Your High - " one begins, and Dimitri flinches so badly Victory shakes her head and whinnies.

“Countess," the other says, a little too loudly and still looking straight at Dimitri, "of course, you're expected. The stables are up that way, I'm sure his - your companion can show you."

"Thank you," she says, and as the gates open she lets herself fall behind Dimitri, whose eye has gone a little distant but whose hands know exactly where to guide the horse because he's done it thousands of times before. Bernadetta takes the opportunity to look around, at the imposing palace and the vast expanse of the grounds, the architecture so different from Enbarr, the very stone it's made from the wrong color. It's beautiful, stark against the clear blue of the midsummer sky, and she's grateful she didn't see it for the first time marching to invade. 

Dimitri seems to relax as they ride up the path, though she can't see his face to get an idea of whether he's truly calming down or if his mind is just a thousand miles away and his body thinks it's supposed to be calm here, the way Bernadetta slept easier during the war when they were at Garreg Mach than anywhere else. Maybe the palace isn't that kind of place for him, though; Bernadetta doesn't really know that much about him, aside from what's important to know as his traveling companion.

The boy waiting at the stables is just that, a boy of maybe ten or eleven, with sandy hair and ruddy cheeks. He glances at Dimitri and his eyes go wide, but then he shakes his head and very pointedly looks at Bernadetta.

"The Margrave asked me to see to your horses, Countess," he says, and puffs his little chest out a little. "Me, specifically."

"Well, and why not?" Dimitri says, as he dismounts; he crouches a little when he lands so he's closer to eye level, and Sylvain must have given the boy very strict instructions because he looks back and forth between Dimitri and Bernadetta several times like he's not sure what he's supposed to do. "Of course the master of the stables would handle the horses of important guests."

"Oh, I'm just a stable boy, sir," he says, as serious as anything, and Dimitri laughs more brightly than Bernadetta's ever heard. She's not sure which one of them is cuter, if she's honest.

"My mistake, then. What's your name?"

"Anthony, sir," he says, and then glances between them again. "I was told I should only address the Countess."

"Oh, I don't mind," Bernadetta says. "And I won't tell."

Anthony glances between them again, unsure, but he settles on Dimitri again when Dimitri pulls five gold coins out of the purse on his belt.

"Thank you, Anthony," Dimitri says. "I'm glad to have someone so careful looking after our mounts."

Bernadetta watches them for a moment longer, the delight in Anthony's eyes and the uncommon warmth in Dimitri's, the smile she's only seen on rare occasions and, really, only a shadow of, then laughs at herself a little for getting distracted and dismounts. She shoulders her pack and takes the bags with their spare clothes off the pack horse; Dimitri nods to Anthony and rises to take his own bag.

"Should I have the rest of your things sent up to your room?"

"Yes, please," Bernadetta says.

Anthony nods and takes the reins in one hand, clutching his gold with the other; the pack horse, tied to Bernadetta's, follows obediently behind. Bernadetta hands Dimitri his bag of clothes and smiles at him, though his own smile is already fading as they turn towards the palace.

"You're good with children," Bernadetta says, while they walk.

"I suppose so," Dimitri says. "I've never found it difficult."

"I never know what they're thinking, so I get nervous, and then it makes them nervous, I think," Bernadetta says. "But I guess that's true of most people."

"You don't make me nervous," Dimitri says, and Bernadetta doesn't know what to say to that but it doesn't matter because they're close enough to the palace proper she can see who's waiting for them on the steps.

"Countess Varley," Sylvain says, and bows so deeply he nearly falls over.

"Margrave Gautier," she replies, and tries to give him an exaggerated curtsy in response but forgets to adjust for the weight of her pack and nearly falls herself. She laughs, and Sylvain hurries down the steps towards her, and she drops her bag and shrugs out of her pack so she can meet him partway for one of his wonderful bone-crushing hugs, the kind where he lifts her off the ground. It's been a long time since she's seen him, too long, and she clings to him a little more tightly than she might otherwise. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just squeezes her a little extra before setting her feet back on the ground.

"Goddess, it's good to see you," he says, and winks. "And your anonymous traveling companion."

"Sylvain," Dimitri says, like he's grumbling, but there's a hint of the smile he gave Anthony, and though he doesn't drop everything he's holding to make it easy like Bernadetta did, he returns Sylvain's hug with equal enthusiasm. It gives Bernadetta a moment to gather her things again, though as soon as he and Dimitri part with solid pats on the back Sylvain yanks the bag right out of her hands.

"So, we didn't have any idea where to put you," Sylvain says, leading them into the palace. "Ashe and Dedue have your parents' suite, but they said if you want it they're happy to move for a little while. Felix and Ingrid and I are just in our family suites, I assume you don't care about taking one of those. Your childhood room is free, we aired it out just in case, or any of the guest suites, or - "

"Is Dedue happy to move if I want the rooms," Dimitri says, "or will Dedue only be happy if I take them, because he won't like being in nicer rooms than I am?"

"Oh, who knows with him," Sylvain says, pleasantly. "He's better about that than he used to be, though."

"Alright," Dimitri says. "Give Bernadetta something with a good view of the gardens, and give me whatever's closest."

"A mistress room," Sylvain says, "adjoining doors. I gotcha."

He winks, and Dimitri swats his arm, such an oddly playful gesture from someone Bernadetta has pretty much only seen be serious. So being in Fhirdiad is good for him, then, or at least being around his friends is. To be fair, Sylvain seems to have this effect on a lot of people. 

"Maybe I want to give Bernie _my_ mistress room," Sylvain says, "so I can sneak in after she's asleep and read her stories."

"You don't have to sneak," Bernadetta says.

"And the Gautier rooms have a terrible view," Dimitri says, and this time he's looking at her with that little smile, like they're the ones sharing a joke. But that's another of Sylvain's effects, she thinks, the ability to bring people together by being the most ridiculous thing in the room.

"Alright, alright," he says. "I know where to put you, no worries."

Sylvain leads them through the palace so quickly Bernadetta doesn't get to look around much, but she's sure someone will give her a tour later if she asks. It's been a couple weeks since the last time they bothered with an inn, and it's so nice to have a roof over her head and the promise of a bath somewhere other than a cold river she doesn't mind hurrying to their destination. By the time they've climbed a grand staircase and another, significantly less grand one, her pack is weighing on her shoulders and her eyelids are getting heavy, like her body knows how close she is to a real bed and refuses to wait.

"I have to get back to work," Sylvain says, pushing open one door and then another beside it, two rooms at the end of a long hall that don't appear to actually adjoin. "For some reason, no one believed I didn't just volunteer to meet you to get out of it the rest of the day. I can have stuff sent up - baths, food? - and even when we're swamped we try to break for family dinner so I can have someone come get you. You can just send 'em away if you'd rather sleep."

"A bath and food would be nice, yes," Dimitri says, and Bernadetta nods, though she's swaying a little on her feet and might fall asleep in the tub. Sylvain ruffles her hair and laughs, and pulls Dimitri into another hug, murmuring something Bernadetta doesn't strain to hear because she's sure she's not supposed to. Dimitri goes a little pink, and clears his throat when Sylvain pulls away, and then nods at Bernadetta and disappears into his room.

There's a big bed against the wall that's extremely tempting, four posters in a beautiful dark wood and fur blankets piled high, but Bernadetta resists. She's not that kind of tired, though she's sure she'd have no trouble falling asleep, just worn from too much travel, the slow build of aches and muscle fatigue from horses and bedrolls alike. A meal not cooked from their limited provisions and the game Dimitri hunts will do her much better than a nap, and a hot bath better than both of those, so she just sets her things down and crosses the room to see the view. The thick, heavy curtains are already tied back, the mid-afternoon sun shining through, and spread out on the ground far below are the royal gardens in all their glory. From this high they look like most stretches of Faerghan hillside Bernadetta's seen, a beautiful quilt of every imaginable shade of green thrown together and left to spread, to claim all the available landscape. Faerghus seems to specialize in hardy, creeping things that can put down roots anywhere and thrive, the sort of thing you can't plant one of without waking up sometime in the future to find your garden overrun - bushes that turn thick and woody at the center if allowed to stay in one place long enough, vines that seek out the only centimetre of viable soil as far as the eye can see, flowers that bloom in secret tangles where the cold and wind can't find them. The imperial gardens in Enbarr are alive with color, nearly every shade imaginable, bright and beautiful every direction you look, but Bernadetta has a feeling the garden she looks upon now doesn't become small and brown and unrecognizable with the first snow.

-

"No, trust me, you'll want more of that," Sylvain says, and stops the server so he can dish another heaping spoonful of something in a heavy white sauce onto Bernadetta's plate. Most of what she knows about Faerghan food is what they served in the dining hall at Garreg Mach, which she remembers as being rich and heavy more than anything else. After so many years of rations, first whatever she and Felix could carry and hunt, then the careful portions of Edelgard's Strike Force, then the limited fare of a nation whose major food sources burned in the war, Bernadetta isn't sure her stomach is quite prepared for rich and heavy, but she doesn't mind letting Sylvain interfere. 

Besides, she's a little overwhelmed; Sylvain called this "family dinner" but Bernadetta's family had quiet, tense dinners, and she avoided the dining hall at peak hours while she was at the Academy, and living in Enbarr she mostly ate with Edelgard, Hubert, and Ferdinand - Dorothea or Caspar made for a rowdy night, but it was usually only one of them visiting - and on the road with Dimitri they might go hours and hours without talking. Ingrid and Felix came in arguing about some initiative to support farmers and haven't stopped, Ashe is very animatedly telling Dimitri a story with occasional interjections from Dedue, and Sylvain is being his usual self. Bernadetta's head is buzzing a little, and if it weren't for Sylvain making her put food on her plate she might end up with nothing at all. 

"Dedue and Ashe have been in charge of staffing the kitchens and you would not _believe_ what a difference a few guys from Duscur make, I've been eating this food my whole life but - hey, Bernie?"

"Oh!" Bernadetta says, and shakes her head a little like she's clearing out the noise. "Sorry, I was - "

"Hold on," Sylvain says, and smiles at her before turning to throw a pea at Felix. It lands in his water glass so Sylvain tries again, and once more, until one finally hits Felix in the face and draws his attention. "No work at the dinner table."

Felix scowls. "We need to settle this."

"We have until the end of the day tomorrow, it's fine," Sylvain says. "Or we can meet after dinner, if you're that worried. We have company, make a good impression."

"I think that ship has sailed," Ingrid says, and Felix's scowl deepens but it's one Bernadetta recognizes, just for the sake of everyone who expects him to be annoyed. She smiles at him a little, testing the waters, and his expression doesn't change much but he tips his head to acknowledge her and sets about eating his dinner instead of arguing further.

"I hardly count as company," Dimitri says, and Sylvain laughs.

"I meant Bernadetta."

"Oh," Dimitri says, going a little red in the cheeks. "Of course. Forgive me, I'm a little out of sorts."

"It must be strange coming back here," Ingrid says.

"Less than I imagined," Dimitri says. "I thought it might be like returning home to find someone else has moved in, but it’s far more like seeing a ruin rebuilt into something new. I'm pleased with what you all have made of it, I simply had a trying day."

"Bernie talk your ear off?" Sylvain asks, and grins at her, big and showy, She doesn't have any idea what to say, never very good at playing Sylvain's little games even when she's fully awake and not trying as hard as she can not to return to old habits and sneak her plate back to her room, but he turns to Ashe before she has the chance to try. "Sorry, you were being good and talking about something that isn't work before I interrupted."

Ashe laughs and starts his story over from the beginning, something about a minor disaster in the kitchen a few days ago that Bernadetta feels a little bad not paying attention to. Ashe's voice has a lovely rhythm to it, though, especially offset by Dedue's deep calm when he offers commentary, and it's nice to just let it wash over her while she eats. Sylvain was right about the meat in the white sauce, just spicy enough to cut the richness, and everything else he insisted she pile on her plate, and the wine is sweet, and though she shouldn't really be surprised at this point that she can be happy in all sorts of places, she still is every time.

"I'd say that's the end of Ashe preparing special treats for the staff," Dedue says, "but no one in the kitchens can say no to him."

"No one anywhere can say no to him," Felix says, without any of the bite of an insult; Ashe goes pink and ducks to hide behind his hair a little, and Dedue beams at him so brightly it's like staring at the sun. Most everyone Bernadetta knows either put all thoughts of romance aside during the war or had the same experience she did, and to see anyone in love, in the kind of love that's so big and obvious it fills the room, is...bittersweet. More sweet than bitter, of course, but there's something small and ugly and jealous that curls up in her gut at the sight she doesn't recognize and doesn't exactly like.

"Don't let him fool you, Ashe," Dimitri says, an unfamiliar brightness to his voice. "Dedue did the exact same thing when we were younger. More food has been lost to someone tripping in that kitchen than was burned in the war, I'm sure."

"I was just so happy to have gotten my hands on so much sugar," Ashe says, and sighs. "But we salvaged most of it."

"Edelgard's confident we can loosen the rations on some things soon," Bernadetta says. Felix rolls his eyes and scoffs.

"In the empire, maybe," he says.

"We _are_ in the empire," Ingrid says, glancing at Bernadetta. "All of Fódlan is."

"In the state of Adrestia, then," Felix says, crossing his arms. "Because I know how far the Tailtean Plains are from producing at normal capacity again, so I assume if anything's changing it's because all the resources are going to Gronder."

"Most of Fódlan's sugar comes from Dagda and Brigid," Dedue says. "So whether we'll get enough to ease up on rations is simply a matter of whether the roads are safe enough for supplies to make it up here."

"Those ships land in Ochs and Nuvelle," Felix says. "Which means Adrestia controls distribution, and if they want it all kept there it doesn't matter how safe the roads are."

"Bernie," Sylvain says, and clasps his hands together. "Bernie, please, I'm begging you, leave Dimitri here and take me with you."

"Please don't," Dimitri says; when Bernadetta looks at him he's done a decent job of pasting on a smile, playing along with the joke, but Bernadetta knows fear when she sees it.

"Sorry," she says to Sylvain. "If you came with me, who would read about my adventures?"

"Oh," Sylvain says, and leans forward with his chin in his hands. "Does that mean you have new work for me to read?"

"Goddess, turn it _off_ , Sylvain," Felix says, and turns his attention back to his meal. Ingrid asks Ashe about the spices used for the potatoes, Dedue starts gently prodding Dimitri about what kind of care he's taking of himself on the road, and with most everyone's attention blessedly away from her, Bernadetta begins telling Sylvain about the most recent installment of her heroine's adventures and the life she's carving out for herself post-war.

-

Nighttime is Bernadetta's favorite, always has been. When she was a child, her father kept to a rigid sleep schedule, and night falling over Varley meant safety; at the monastery, the rising of the moon brought with it quiet, the crowds of students she was so afraid of disappearing into their rooms and leaving the grounds for Bernadetta to explore; as a mercenary, she was offered a break from violence and the comfort of a warm bedroll and Felix's strong arms; in the war, she sat, exhausted, and watched the stars from around a campfire with the people she loved enough to fight beside and knew things would be okay. Now, with Dimitri, night mostly just means the deep, exhausted sleep one earns with a day of hard work, but tonight the rest that seemed so close at hand when they arrived eludes her and she has nearly endless options for occupying her mind here safely indoors with plenty of lanterns to light her projects.

Sylvain has one of her notebooks, so she won't be updating Ursula's story tonight, but there's mending to be done and some simple reinforcements she'd like to add to her pack where it's wearing thin, there are her sketches to detail, notes to expand on, a few volumes on Faerghan native plant life Ashe loaned her; she has paints and pencils and embroidery and a vague desire to leave something nice behind for their hosts, and all she's done is pull things out of her pack and decide she's not in the mood until the desk in her room can't take it anymore. Thankfully, she's saved from her indecision by a knock at the door, though it's hard to imagine who might be up and around this late. 

"I knew you'd be awake," Felix says when she opens the door, before she has a chance to react to seeing him. He's dressed for bed - which apparently for him still means loose traveling clothes he could easily walk to market in if he were a commoner, as if he might be set upon in the night and need to make a run for it - with his hair in a messy bun, arms crossed, a roll of paper in one hand he's holding like it could be a weapon, if it needed to be.

"I tried to sleep," Bernadetta says, and he shrugs.

"You're indoors," he says, like that explains anything. "I'm sorry if I was - Ingrid thinks I upset you at dinner."

"It wasn't you," Bernadetta says, and steps back so if he wants to come inside he can; to her surprise he not only accepts her invitation but turns first to take hold of a serving cart laid out with tea and biscuits and wheels it in behind him. He glances at her desk, piled high with projects, and pulls the cart over to the bed instead, taking the desk chair for himself and drawing it over. Bernadetta watches all this like it's happening to someone else, then shakes her head and climbs onto the bed to sit across from him. 

"I didn't think so," he says. "We're loud, and you're - you. But I thought I should - I'm not so angry all the time anymore, but I'm still...me."

"I shouldn't have brought Edelgard up," Bernadetta says. "I didn't take it personally."

Felix nods with his mouth set in a thin line, like they've come to some agreement and he needs to mark it, and pours them each a cup of tea, splashing a little because he always moves like he's fighting, quick and sharp so his opponent won't see him coming. It's strange, to know someone as well as she knows him.

"It's mint," Felix says, and pushes a sugar bowl towards her. "Ashe said you might like it, if you like sweet."

"Ingrid, Ashe," Bernadetta says, and laughs a little. "How many people did you ask before coming up here?"

Felix scowls, a little pink rising in his cheeks. "I didn't. Ingrid scolded me, and Ashe was in the kitchen when I went to get tea. He makes this blend for Dimitri, for his headaches; Dedue will probably make you take a few pounds with you, though I suppose the boar can handle carrying it."

"I didn't know he had headaches," Bernadetta says, rather than scolding him, though the epithet bothers her. It's not her place to be bothered, anyway - Felix and Dimitri's relationship is complicated, _Felix_ is complicated, and she's new to that part of his life.

"Maybe he doesn't get them as much anymore," Felix says with a shrug. "Or he's just too Dimitri to complain about it. Why are you traveling with him?"

"It was Edelgard's idea," Bernadetta says, between sips of her tea, just a little bit too sweet the way she likes and perfectly refreshing. "I wanted an escort, he needed something to do."

"That's not what I mean," Felix says. "You were ready to kill him, if you had to, and now you're...whatever you are."

Bernadetta takes a long, slow sip of her tea so she can study his face; it's so easy to argue with him, because he'd always rather argue than talk, but Felix isn't as hard to read as he wants to be and she's had a lot of practice. He's fidgeting a little, though that's not unusual, and more than once glances over his shoulder at the wall between this room and Dimitri's. He'd rather be over there, maybe, or maybe he's just feeling protective. Bernadetta used to think it was cute, the way he watched his friends like a guard dog, the way he watched her. It's still - it's not that she doesn't think it's still nice, really, just that it doesn't make her want to swoon a little bit anymore. It's too bad parting ways with someone means losing all the good parts of having feelings for them.

"I didn't know he was alive when I left," Bernadetta says. "I didn't want to kill anyone, I wanted the war to be over, and as far as I knew only one side still had a real leader. I was just - I was tired."

"Hm," Felix says, and crosses his arms. "So if I'd told you Dimitri was alive, you would've chosen differently?"

Bernadetta sighs. "I don't know. Does it matter? Maybe if Hubert had written first, and you didn't know, you would have come with me. What difference does it make now? I can't - the war's over, Felix. I'm sorry if me being here is bad for you, I really, really am, but it wasn't my idea."

Felix glances over his shoulder again and back at Bernadetta and sighs, lifts his hand like he's going to run it through his hair then remembers it's up in a bun and shakes his head.

"I really did come here to apologize for dinner," Felix says. "And for this, too, I guess, now. I wasn't - here."

The roll of paper he was holding when he knocked on her door is sitting on the tea cart; Felix picks it up and hands it to her, and Bernadetta has to put her tea down to unroll it. It takes her a second to figure out what she's looking at, a hastily-drawn diagram with labels in Felix's neat handwriting. There's a bear drawn in one corner, and - oh, it's her room, and Dimitri's next door - it's a map. A map with the nearest kitchen, secluded sitting room, library, and door to the gardens all marked, all the places Bernadetta most likes to go when she wanders late at night.

"You made this for me?"

Felix shrugs. "I didn't know if the boar would think to show you, or if you'd want to ask, and I didn't want you to feel trapped."

"I - wow," she says. "Um, thank you."

Felix nods, and stands. "It doesn't upset me that you're here, Bernie, I just - I haven't seen you since Gronder. Either of you. It put me back there, I guess."

"It's okay," Bernadetta says; she's not as far past it as she thought, either, though it's easy to pretend it's only because Felix brought it up first. 

"Sure," Felix says. "I'll, uh, leave this here, in case you get hungry."

Bernadetta nods, and Felix smiles at her, a little awkward and lopsided but close enough to the smile she remembers. and leaves her to the empty room. She sighs, sets the map of the wing back down on the cart, looks at the pile of things she could do in the peace and quiet, and slides under the covers rather than going to pick any of them up. All of a sudden, Bernadetta is exhausted, and sleep finds her quickly once she turns off the light.

-

"Cornelia had quite an impressive poison garden, actually," Dedue says. "I didn't much like the message that sent, so it's been dismantled. I shipped a number of the plants to Hubert, as a gesture of goodwill."

" _Dedue_ ," Dimitri says, scandalized; he's been so quiet Bernadetta nearly forgot he was walking with them. "You sent poison to a foreign noble?"

"Faerghus and Adrestia are merely different states now, not countries, so no," Dedue says. 

"I helped him plant them," Bernadetta says; it had been hot, and she'd had to wear thick gloves and long sleeves to prevent little nicks and cuts, but it had been her first chance since the war began to really get in the soil and help something grow. "He was quite pleased; I didn't know that was you! I assumed he'd requested them."

"Poison is a terrible gesture of goodwill," Dimitri says.

"Diplomacy is more complicated now than ever," Dedue says, with a smile that's just a little - Bernadetta thinks - hesitant. “Be glad you aren't expected to deal with it anymore."

Dimitri laughs, a short, quiet burst that passes so quickly Bernadetta almost thinks she imagined it, and claps Dedue on the back, and whatever wariness marred his smile disappears. 

"I am," Dimitri says. "I - you know, this is a terrible tour for Bernadetta, she has learned only that you sent a gift, and nothing about your beautiful garden."

"How rude of me," Dedue says, in a dry voice that reminds Bernadetta, perhaps oddly, of Hubert; specifically, how disgusted he gets when he makes a joke that doesn't sound like a joke and someone doesn't get it. Dimitri must have driven him crazy when they were both in Enbarr, if they ever talked, because he just smiles, genuinely pleased to have turned the conversation away from himself, and strolls off a little way to look at some flowers. Dedue laughs, a quiet little huff of a laugh Bernadetta's not sure she's supposed to hear, and watches him for a moment, a soft smile crinkling his eyes at the corners, before offering his arm to Bernadetta and leading her to a small, raised box set apart from the rest of the garden.

"Oh, I recognize these," she says. "From Duscur, right? The same varieties as in the Garreg Mach greenhouse."

"The same plants," Dedue says. "They survived, and Byleth was kind enough to arrange for them to be sent here as soon as the roads were safe."

"Wow," Bernadetta says. "I - it was five years, wasn't it? No one went back until the Millenium Festival?"

"I don't believe it was fully abandoned right away," Dedue says. "But yes, about that long. They're quite hardy, the plants in this family - as long as the roots are intact, they can survive most anything."

"Oh, I like that," Bernadetta says. and reaches out to run her fingers over the plump green leaves of one variety, the sort that slice like a sword if you're careless but can be used to heal burns if you aren't. "Can you imagine being the first person to see the greenhouse after all that time, expecting to see only rot and decay, and finding all this life in the middle of it, hanging on?"

Dedue doesn't answer; Bernadetta looks up to see if he heard her to find him looking past her, watching Dimitri as he leans in to smell some flowers, wrinkles his brow as if he's confused, or frustrated, and moves on to the next. Bernadetta doesn't read people well - too much solitude in her youth, she never had the chance to learn - and knowing something's happening but not being able to guess what it is makes her anxious. She taps her foot, letting some of the nervous energy out, and Dedue finally turns to see her watching him.

"I imagine it was," he says. "Nice, I mean. You cook as well, don't you? Sometimes when I come out here during lunch I'll see if anything in the herb garden catches my eye and bring it to the cooks for dinner. I don't often have time to cook myself these days, so it's nice to have a little influence."

Bernadetta nods and he leads her on, along the rough path that winds through the garden, out of sight of Dimitri. She can smell the herbs before she sees them, the air going bright and sweet in her lungs so she can't help but take deep breaths of it. It's different enough from the food gardens of Adrestia - milder, more subtle, a little less like a well-stocked kitchen and more like a well-cared-for lawn - to make her a little homesick, but also to make her itch to try everything, both fresh from the garden and cooked into things. She's not sure how welcoming the kitchen staff here are to help from the nobles, stories about Ashe tripping over lintels notwithstanding, but maybe if nobody minds she can make lunch a few times while she's here, as thanks. 

"I know," Dedue says, as she takes in such heavy lungfuls she almost gets dizzy. "I suppose it smells less like home to you, but it is good, isn't it? I spent a lot of time out here, when tending to Dimitri allowed it; the greenhouse at the monastery was never quite right."

"No," Bernadetta says. "Close, though."

Dedue walks her around the herb garden, picking leaves off the occasional stem for her to taste - some familiar from the Faerghan food at the monastery, some familiar from home, some entirely new - and explaining uses and growing seasons to her in the kind of detail she hoped for after so many of Dimitri's _I'm sorry, I don't know plants very well, but I'm sure Dedue would have plenty to say_ apologies. Dedue finds shears nearby and cuts a few stems of the mint that smells so sharp it clears Bernadetta's head after she asks for a third leaf, and just smiles politely and trims some of the lush, feathery fennel when she tells him he should pick what goes best with it.

"If you don't mind my asking," he says, "how do you find cooking for Dimitri? It could be frustrating at times, even once I was used to it."

"He doesn't seem to have much of an opinion about anything," Bernadetta says, after looking around to make sure he isn't standing nearby. "I've cooked for some very picky eaters and he's much better than that, though I haven't found anything he seems very enthusiastic about."

"I doubt you will," Dedue says. "Dimitri doesn't have much of a sense of taste, not since...he was young. Strong enough flavors might occasionally break through, and he does take some joy in interesting textures, but for the most part it's all a bland necessity to him. You don't find he's too easy with his praise for your food?"

"I don't think he's complimented anything I've made at all," Bernadetta says. "But it's just camping food."

"Hm," Dedue says. "More than once in our youth I had to find a way to discreetly tell him the food at a state dinner was terrible, so he would know to be merely polite with his praise as his usual enthusiasm would be too apparently false. Perhaps he's finally kicked the habit."

"There must be less pressure on him now," Bernadetta says, and hands Dedue the mint so he can tie it in a neat bundle with the fennel.

"I would think so," Dedue says. "Though I have seen Dimitri create immense pressure out of thin air simply because he doesn't feel right without it; I wonder if there is something about you that helps."

"Oh," Bernadetta says, surprised. "I just meant - without the crown, he must - "

"Bernadetta!" Dimitri says, and Bernadetta jumps a little, looking around to see where he's standing, where he must have snuck up to overhear them talking about him. He isn't anywhere near them, though, standing off near a bed of soft, yellow flowers, waving her over. "Come see this."

Dimitri, in his rich blues, looks oddly at home in the riot of color that is the flower garden, part of a bouquet someone started arranging from only the most striking flowers at hand. He is smiling, which is less rare here than Bernadetta expected after weeks of traveling with him, and he cups a bloom in his large hand, one that fits his palm nearly perfectly.

"We found something like this when we were traveling, yes? When you - oh, Dedue!"

Dimitri lets go of the flower so he can tug his overshirt off, standing in the middle of the gardens in his undershirt in a way Bernadetta isn't sure is more appropriate now that he's no longer prince, or less. It doesn't seem to matter to him, though, he just squints at his shirt as he shifts it around in his hands until he finds what he's looking for and holds it out for Dedue to admire.

"Look how she mends things," Dimitri says, almost like he's - well, like he's _proud_ to have a silly little lion stitched onto the back of his shirt. 

"Oh, it isn't - " Bernadetta says, but neither of them are listening, Dimitri too busy beaming and Dedue too busy looking at Dimitri the same way Dimitri looks at the little embroidered lion, as if he's something so charming Dedue couldn't have imagined he existed before seeing it for himself. Not the way he looks at Ashe, the adoration brimming over like he might start weeping with joy any minute, but - oh, Bernie wishes she had her pencils, she could sketch the look on his face easier than trying to figure it out. 

"That's clever," Dedue says, finally turning his gaze to the embroidery. His smile softens as he runs his fingers over it, and by the time he looks at Dimitri again his expression is the same kind of pleasantly neutral Bernadetta remembers. "If you're going to be a commoner now, you should mend your own shirts."

"I tried," Dimitri says, and laughs. "It did not go well."

"You'll learn," Bernadetta says. "And I don't mind."

Dimitri nods, and then blinks, and seems to realize he's in a slightly inappropriate state of undress because his cheeks go pink and he pulls his shirt back on rather abruptly and clears his throat.

"I was, ah, going to ask about the flowers," Dimitri says.

"The Blaiddyd Roses," Dedue says. "They're actually peonies; I'm not certain who named them, or why, but no attempts to correct it have stuck. This varietal only grows here, officially, though I imagine birds have helped it make its way considerably farther."

"Blaiddyd?" Dimitri asks. “For the region, I assume.”

"I believe one of your ancestors may have been responsible for breeding them," Dedue says, and reaches to pluck one of the heavy blooms that's already beginning to wilt so he can hold it up next to Dimitri's hair, where the rich yellow blends nearly perfectly. "Or perhaps just commissioned them. If you look in the portrait hall, Bernadetta, you can see when they were first cultivated - nearly every official portrait since has a few of these in a vase somewhere."

"An ancestor of mine needed the flowers in his royal portrait to match his hair, truly?"

"Maybe an ancestor of yours was a painter," Bernadetta says. "Though if I wanted a little yellow to offset someone's hair I might just fake it rather than breed an entirely new flower."

"I like to think it was a lover," Dedue says. "From a region where yellow hair is less common, most likely, and so taken with it they had to pay tribute somehow."

Bernadetta sighs, easy for that kind of romance; imagine, caring so much for someone you had to see them recreated in the garden, in the place you go to escape from people. Or, well, the place Bernie goes to escape from people, anyway. She reaches out to run her fingers over the petals, to cup her hand around the flower and feel how oddly heavy it is, the weight of someone's devotion if Dedue's theory is right. Since they have no way of knowing, she can just _believe_ Dedue is right, if she wants.

"They're in need of pruning," Dedue says. "I can ask the gardeners to put aside a few stems for your room, if you'd like to look at them further."

"I - oh," Bernadetta says, giving herself a moment for her brain to run through all the denials it comes up with every time someone offers her a kindness. "That would be lovely, thank you."

Dedue nods, then glances away and frowns; Bernadetta follows his gaze to see a page waving from the garden doors; from the look on his face he's either been waving for quite some time, or something urgent has happened. Either way, the tour has clearly come to an end, along with Dedue's free time for the afternoon.

"Duty calls, I'm afraid," he says, and hands Dimitri the Blaiddyd Rose he plucked before bowing a little to them both and striding off across the garden, looking for all the world like he was always meant to rule this place. 

Dimitri sighs, twisting the flower in his fingers. "He works so hard, and he shouldn't even be here."

"It must have been hard losing him, after having him so close for so many years," Bernadetta says, and he frowns.

"It is," he says, "but that's not what I meant. He was going to - when I took the throne, I was going to take a little time to find my footing and then send him home to Duscur. That's where he should be working, where all his efforts should be aimed."

Bernadetta doesn't know what to say to that, so she just nods; it's only very recently she's felt anything but powerless, it's impossible to imagine losing the kind of power Dimitri did. To know you could bend the world, or at least a large portion of it, to your will, and have that taken from you - Dimitri doesn't seem like much for bending anything to his will, not the way he he gets so upset when he accidentally bends a flower stem too hard and breaks it, but of course he had plans. His frown deepens as he looks at the two halves of the flower Dedue plucked, most of the stem in one hand and the bloom itself in the other, then shakes his head and hands the good half to Bernadetta. She feels a little silly cupping it in her palm, but she has a feeling Dimitri wouldn't want her to leave it behind.

"I lack Dedue's knowledge," he says, "but I would be happy to finish the tour in his stead, if you'd like."

"I would," Bernadetta says; she smiles at him, and the smile he returns it with is one she's coming to recognize, and perhaps to treasure a little - small, and awkward, and shining so brightly in his good eye even Bernie can’t doubt his sincerity.


	2. Chamomile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family dinner, a difficult conversation, a sparring match, and a migraine.

Bernadetta stands in the doorway of her room and takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then repeats the process one or two times. It's going to be a long night of exactly the variety she most delighted in leaving behind when she decided to set out and travel - the former Blue Lions who don't currently live at the castle have made time to come to dinner to see Dimitri, and it’s going to be crowded, and loud, and she doesn't know why she let Sylvain talk her out of a quiet dinner alone in her room so the "whole family" could catch up without her. The door to the room next to hers opens, and even with her eyes closed Bernadetta can tell when Dimitri comes to stand in front of her, an imposing presence even when she can't see him.

"Are you well?" he asks; when she opens her eyes, he's frowning.

"I'm alright," she says. "I just needed - I don't do well with too many people."

"It's only Annette and Mercedes."

"I know," Bernadetta says; it isn't, exactly, but she's sure if she tells him that four days into their visit she's only just getting comfortable with the volume and enthusiasm of the normal dinners he'll feel bad. "It's silly."

Dimitri holds out his arm for her to take with a small smile, and rests his hand over hers, big and warm, when she takes it and lets him begin leading her down the hall.

"I am sure you've heard by now I get headaches," Dimitri says. "They tend to be quite intense, and most who know me are well aware they can come on suddenly and leave me incapacitated for sometimes more than a day at a time."

"Are you feeling alright tonight?"

"I am," he says. "I simply mean to say everyone here takes a headache seriously. If you find you need an escape, I recommend complaining of one. You might even get Dedue to make you some of his special tea."

"I wouldn't want to be any trouble," she says, even as her heartbeat slows, her body relaxing just to know it has an escape route as if this is an assassination attempt and not a dinner.

"Of course," Dimitri says. "Then I'll be sure to tell him not to, though I'm sure if I bring a plate of dessert back to my room afterwards you would allow me to trouble myself to share?"

"Deal," Bernadetta says, laughing a little. She likes the quiet, stoic Dimitri she's had along on what was supposed to be a solo journey so far, but getting to know the Dimitri he keeps revealing here, who seems much more like the Dimitri Sylvain and even sometimes Felix would talk about at school before the war, has been a lot of fun. 

Dimitri pauses with her at the top of the stairs leading to the hall outside the main dining room; she assumes it's for her benefit, as he squeezes her hand a little, but she doesn't miss that he also takes the opportunity to take a deep, slow breath and square his shoulders. He lets go of her hand and pulls his arm away as they descend, and she misses the steadying comfort but Dimitri has barely set foot on the floor when Mercedes and Annette both shout and wrap him up in a hug that almost knocks him over so she understands why it was necessary. 

"And you, too! Oh, Bernadetta, how lovely to see you," Mercedes says, and Bernadetta barely has time to realize Mercedes is talking to her before she's swept up in a tight hug, fully smothered in all Mercedes' softness. It's not unpleasant, exactly, just unexpected, and it takes Bernadetta a moment to be able to relax into it the way normal people do with hugs.

"Mercedes," Jeritza says, and Bernadetta squeaks a little - last she knew he was in Varley, taking advantage of the empty manor to enjoy his solitude. "I told you."

"Oh," Mercedes says, and lets Bernadetta go. "I know, I just - oh, he talks about you so _much_ , Bernadetta, I'm so grateful for everything you've done for him. Not everyone is as kind to Emile as he deserves."

"I wonder why," Ingrid says, from somewhere behind them, and then there’s a quiet thud and a less quiet _ow_.

"Of course, Ingrid," Mercedes says, kindly, not allowing Ingrid the dignity of pretending she didn't hear. "But he's come such a long way, and surely everyone deserves a second chance."

Mercedes steps away and Bernadetta can look at Emile for the first time, no different than the last time she saw him, or the year they spent hunting Those Who Slither In The Dark together. She probably hasn't changed much either, at least to look at, but it's a little hard to wrap her head around Emile in peace time being the same person as Jeritza at war.

"I did tell her not to overwhelm you," he says, as he pulls her into a brief, tight hug.

"It's okay," Bernadetta says. "I handle people better than I used to. It’s Emile now?"

"I don't much care what I’m called," Emile says, “and it makes Mercedes happy. I was - Varley was a bit too quiet, I thought it might be wiser to come stay with Mercedes for a while, and it’s good to be able to do something for her in return."

Bernadetta looks over her shoulder to make sure no one's paying attention to them and then leans in a little, rests her hand on Emile's arm.

"He hasn't come back?"

"No," Emile says. "But I was getting bored, and that is when he finds me."

"I'm glad you came, then," Bernadetta says; it wasn't very long ago he would have just let the Death Knight back in and disappeared without a trace. It wasn't very long ago more people wanted that from him than wanted Jeritza, or Emile, around at all.

Dinner is as good as every meal has been so far, rich and spicy and so hearty Bernadetta's sure she won't want breakfast in the morning. It's easy to focus on the food - particularly the salad dressed with fresh herbs from the garden - because Ashe, surely trying to be considerate, sat her between the two people at this table she knows best. Felix and Emile both seem happy to ignore one particular thing they have in common in favor of talking about weapon care and battle tactics over her head, so Bernadetta just keeps her head down and tries not to dwell too hard on the mistakes she made with them. She thinks she's doing an alright job, considering no one really expects her to be too social, until she looks up to see Sylvain watching her, clearly trying not to laugh.

It's - it _is_ funny - she went to war to get away from Felix when that ended, and to Enbarr when she and Emile finally figured out all that was between them was the heat of the hunt, yet here she is between them - and she takes a sip of wine to hide the way she's smiling; Sylvain does the same, but times it badly, starts to laugh with his mouth on the glass and splutters wine onto the tablecloth. Bernadetta does laugh, then, over a chorus of _ugh_ and _Sylvain!_ , and passes him her napkin to help clean up with. 

It's apparently rare that both Mercedes and Annette have the time to come to the palace, so rather than returning to work the council members join everyone else in one of the sitting rooms with more wine and the finger cakes Mercedes and Annette brought for dessert. No one says a word when Bernadetta slips out to go to her room for a moment of quiet, to catch her breath in a room that isn't crawling with people, one of whom she still doesn't know how to talk to, and no one says anything when she slips back in just as quietly and settles into a plush armchair in the corner, away from most of the socializing. She has embroidery to work on, an armored pegasus in flight on a cushion cover for Ingrid, and allowing herself to focus on that so the voices of too many conversations at once simply wash over her rather than crash into her and knock her off-balance reminds her a little of being at school. Not in the beginning, of course, when she'd wait until everyone had gone to bed to use any common spaces, but near the end, when she'd started figuring out nobody was going to hurt her after all.

"I worried these would run out without you getting any," Dimitri says, and it takes Bernadetta a moment or two to realize he's talking to her, that his voice isn't just rising from the crowd. He sets a plate with a small selection of desserts on the side table next to Bernadetta's chair, smiles at her, and returns to his seat between Dedue and Sylvain before she can get the words together to thank him. She raises her hand in a little wave of acknowledgement, at least, but he's already turned his attention back to the minor argument going on around him so Bernadetta just turns back to her stitching. A saddle blanket comes to life in a deep green satin stitch as she munches on cakes, careful with the crumbs partially to avoid marring the project and partially because they're delicious and any crumb left behind would be a waste. Sylvain and Felix argue, as Sylvain and Felix do; Bernadetta finishes the blanket and uses the end of the green thread to stitch accents into the pegasus' braided mane. Annette tells a story that has everyone laughing, Dimitri's laugh booming over the rest; Bernadetta switches to a yellow-gold and begins filling in the armor with a tricky little stitch that should look like hammered metal when it's finished. 

Emile comes to sit by her, and Bernadetta tilts her head a little to acknowledge him, mostly because she knows he doesn't really expect anything from her. If she'd known sooner there were people who would happily sit in a quiet corner with her, who wanted to be alone but not _alone_ , she might have had an easier time leaving her room. He is smiling, or as close as he ever gets to a smile when he isn't out of his head with bloodlust, as Mercedes talks about her orphanage, gushes about how much she loves the children, how happy she is to be doing something to improve Fódlan after so many years of involvement in the war that tore it apart. Before Shambhala fell, Bernadetta saw a lot of Jeritza's melancholy and the Death Knight's unhinged glee; it's nice to see Emile simply, quietly happy.

Soon enough, the pegasus in its full armor seems to leap from the cloth; all that is left is to embellish it with some fine gold thread and Bernadetta's had too much wine to trust herself with that part tonight, so she tucks the embroidery back in its bag and considers joining the small crowd. Ashe is asleep leaning heavily on Dedue, who is tied up with Dimitri in some quiet, intense conversation murmuring below everyone else's idle chatter. Felix must be drunk, he's allowing Annette to braid his hair while she hums something silly, his cheeks pink from the wine and attention. Sylvain is watching them, the way he watches people, always keeping an eye out - for what, Bernadetta's almost never sure - but he turns and catches her eye and wiggles his fingers in a friendly wave, winks when she waves back. Ingrid is asleep with her head in Mercedes' lap, and Mercedes is working on her own embroidery project; everyone is so soft and warm, so comfortable with each other, so close. 

Head a little fuzzy from the wine, Bernadetta rises, her legs a little unsteady after sitting curled up for so long. 

"Good night," she says, to no one in particular, and isn't surprised when Sylvain and Emile are the only ones who hear her, who bid her good night in return. 

-

Bernadetta was warned about the ever-present chill in Faerghus, but here in midsummer it's warmer than it ever gets up in the mountains in Varley; she's on her third pitcher of iced mint tea and only just finished the underpainting for the piece she’s working on. She won't be able to get back to it until it's had time to dry, so at least there's no real reason to continue sitting out under the insistent gaze of the sun, but the air is beautifully perfumed, the light breeze just enough to carry scents from all corners of the garden, and it's so quiet and lovely Bernadetta can't think of a reason to go inside. She does, at least, move to the shade, bringing the easel with her so she can keep an eye on it and settles under the broad trunk of an old tree to read. The book is one Ashe loaned her, a collection of short stories that's part history of Faerghus and part fairy tale; she doesn't know enough about the history to really tell which parts are which, aside from the obvious, but it's nice anyway.

"There you are," Sylvain says, just as Loog turns down an enchanted fruit that will ensure his victory in an important tournament.

"Here I am," Bernadetta says, and slips a leaf into place as a bookmark. "It's not dinner time already?"

"Nah," Sylvain says, and doesn't so much sit next to her as throw himself on the ground. "Nowhere near. I had two different meetings cancelled, I'm pretending I don't have anything to fill the time with."

"I won't tell," Bernadetta says. She takes his lead and stretches out on the grass, staring up at the bits of sky she can see through the broad, flat leaves of the tree overhead. "You work pretty hard."

"I'm good at it, I think," Sylvain says. "It's mostly talking to people, I know I'm good at that."

It's more than that, Bernadetta knows, that makes Sylvain good at running things, but she also knows he doesn't want or need to hear it. Sylvain's always done her the favor of taking the easy way out when there's something she knows she can do but is afraid, so she does him the favor of not telling him things he already knows about how kind or clever he is. They have plenty of other people in their lives to do the insisting and the pushing; Bernadetta likes being someone he can lie in the grass and joke about being lazy with.

"Your painting's a little weird," Sylvain says.

"It's just the beginning," Bernadetta says; it does look weird, nothing but lights and shadows in shades of red. Tomorrow she'll turn it into the landscape it's supposed to be, warm wild greens and the rough stone of the palace, a cluster of red-orange lilies in the corner so when it's hanging in Sylvain's office and he's there his hair will make them glow, and vice versa. She can't fault the Blaiddyd ancestral portrait painters or flower breeders or besotted lovers for their methods. 

"Sure," he says, like that actually means anything to him. He yawns and stretches, so like a satisfied cat in a sunbeam it makes Bernadetta laugh, and he winks at her when she laughs to make her laugh more. Maybe when all this is over, when Bernadetta's traveled everywhere and looked at every plant and has nothing left to do but go back to Varley, she'll see about a posting as ambassador to Faerghus and come laugh with Sylvain forever. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Edits?" Bernadetta asks. Anytime she gives him something new to read it comes back with bits struck out, notes in the margins, scrawled question marks and exclamation points all over the place, whether she asks or not. The first time she nearly cried, but now she barely forms an opinion about her own work before she shows it to Sylvain.

"Not yet," he says. "You've gotta send me stuff more often, there's so much of it! I don't know how I'll get through it all before you go. No, I - Felix was supposed to talk to you the other night."

"He did."

"Not about what I asked him to," Sylvain says. "I know, because when I brought it up he snapped at me that it wasn't important and went to train for an hour."

Bernadetta sits up so she can look at Sylvain more easily; he's good at looking relaxed when he isn't, but Bernadetta knows him well enough to know when he's putting that kind of effort in. He's still looking up at the sky, mostly, but he can't keep his eyes from drifting her way every couple seconds, and there's an awkward edge to his smile, a tension to the lines of his body even though he's sprawled out just as carelessly as he has been the whole time.

"Felix and I are - we're, you know, we're trying it. Being together, I mean. It's kind of slow, we're both being really careful, but it's...good, it’s really good. And I just wanted you to hear it from him before you saw something, or heard something, or whatever."

"Oh," Bernadetta says. She can't - he's so clearly anxious, she can't just not say anything, but that's all that comes right away. Felix was always going to find someone else, of course, he wasn't the one of them who - and he deserves it. Deserves someone like Sylvain, especially, who knows him and all his sharp bits and how soft and vulnerable the parts that aren't sharp are. Besides, it was Bernadetta who - it doesn't matter what she thinks Felix deserves, really. "That's good!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! Of course."

"I didn't think you'd have a problem with it, I just - I would've been happy, you know, if you two worked out? It wasn't like that. I thought he was an idiot for coming back without you, even. When the woman you love rides off to war you go _after_ her, he has no head for narrative. But he's - it's kind of always been Felix."

Bernadetta doesn't know what to do with that, with Sylvain - what? Deciding to be single forever, if she had Felix? She wouldn't have wanted that, even if everything else had worked out, but she wouldn't have _known_ , so what would she have even done about it? Just hurt Sylvain over and over again in a thousand little ways forever, she supposes. There's no point telling him how stupid that is, how unfair, now, not when everything's ended up where it has, but she wants to anyway. Bernie doesn't get angry very often, and it takes her a second to realize that's what's happening now. 

"I'm happy for you," she says, and hopes it sounds like she means it because she does. "I, um - I didn't want to hurt him."

"Come on, I know that," Sylvain says. "It happened the way it happened, like everything else. Just one of the things we lost in the war."

That's a funny way of looking at it - but then, Bernadetta rejoined the Black Eagles right before the war ended, and moved to Enbarr not long after, and got swept right up in the air of celebration after Edelgard left the peace talks with nearly everything she wanted. Even Hubert, pragmatic as he is, and Ferdinand who wouldn't let anything move forward in that first peacetime council meeting until they discussed the topic of war memorials, mostly only speak of it as a victory, of a path to all the brilliant new things they'll be able to do. But Bernadetta lost one of the first places she ever felt truly safe, and her only chance with someone strange enough to think she'd be worth marrying, and Sylvain lost the certainty of having Felix always on his side, and Dimitri lost...well, everything. 

"Hey," Sylvain says, and Bernadetta can't look at him very long because he has that expression she hates, the one everyone wears when they don't believe she's gotten better and still think if they say the wrong thing she'll start screaming and run away. "We don't have to talk about it. I just wanted you to know. And maybe to convince you to join us in our bedroom before you leave."

He winks again, and laughs, and that awful, careful expression melts into a Sylvain she knows better, likes better, even if it's just the face he puts on because people expect it of him. And Bernadetta laughs, too, because all she can see, as vividly as if it's truly happening, is Felix blushing and spluttering and probably storming out of the room, always at his funniest when he doesn't know what to feel but can't let himself just stand there and figure it out.

"There we go," he says, and stands up in one surprisingly graceful, fluid motion. "I need to get back to work. Or reading your book under my desk and pretending it's work."

"If Faerghus goes to ruin because you weren't paying attention and signed something stupid, you better not blame me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, and then he's gone, disappearing into the greenery on his way back to the palace. Bernadetta watches him go, then watches the place where he turned the corner and vanished, until it becomes clear the noise in her head isn't going to sort itself into any specific thoughts or feelings no matter how long she sits there. She sighs, and turns back to her book, but no matter how curious she is about what happens to Loog - in Adrestia he'd lose the tournament after failing to take the offered advantage, and much would be made of his dignity and honor remaining intact but there would still be some terrible consequence - Bernie can't seem to focus. Her underpainting isn't dry enough to paint over yet, of course, and she didn't bring out any other sketching materials or things to work on, and the grass is beginning to make her legs itch, so she gathers up her things and brings them back to her room.

Her thoughts don't settle once she's inside, either. A little while ago the heat had her drowsy enough to consider an afternoon nap, but all that comfortable sleepiness is nowhere to be found now that she's within range of her bed. She packs a small shoulder bag with some projects - the embroidery for Ingrid, her writing notebook, her sketchbook and pencils - and Felix's hand-drawn map, and heads out to explore this wing of the palace. She might find someplace that calms her, a frustrating thing to need when she has no _reason_ not to be calm, or perhaps simply walking will knock the mess of noises in her head into something she can work with. 

She finds Dimitri before she finds anything she's looking for, his grunts and shouts leading her to the small training room tucked away in the guest wing. There's a larger, better supplied one closer to the royal quarters, she thinks, and of course the sprawling grounds outside where there's always guards willing to spar, but Dimitri's avoided the royal wing since they arrived, for fairly obvious reasons, and other than the stable boy all the staff seem to make him uncomfortable. So here he is, bare to the waist and soaked in sweat, destroying a training mannequin as if it's personally insulted him. He fights with a lance almost as if it's an axe, all brute strength and broad, swinging movements with little finesse. Bernadetta has always liked watching people fight, away from the bloody reality of battle, likes the shapes bodies make in combat they don't anywhere else, the words that spring to mind as she watches that she needs in the calm middle of the night when she writes fight scenes, and Dimitri is certainly no exception. Bernadetta leans against the doorframe and follows the brute force of his footsteps, the power in his back and arms as he strikes, the push of his lance through the mannequin again and again. She's lost some of her strength since the war, no longer forced to keep herself at peak condition or risk death, but if the same has happened to Dimitri it doesn't show.

Slowly, as the mannequin loses an arm, and then a leg, and then its head, the noise buzzing in Bernadetta's mind quiets and settles. Felix wasn't forever; she's known that for a long time. Felix deserves to be happy, she knows that much as well. She may never find someone else, but she's believed since childhood she was unworthy of love and as long as she has proof that part isn't true, what does it matter if the best she can hope for in her life is more like what she had with Emile, the brief and beautiful lining up of their needs and cordial return to friendship when that part of it ended?

"Do you need something?" Dimitri asks, standing before her with the ruined mannequin in one hand and the leather tie that usually keeps his hair from his face in the other. His hair is stringy around his face, wet with sweat, and as he waits for her answer he shakes it out much like a dog after a swim in the lake.

"No," Bernadetta says. "Would you like a partner?"

Dimitri looks surprised, which is fair, because Bernadetta hadn't known she was going to ask until the words actually came out of her mouth. She isn't much for training when it isn't necessary, but there's a certain calm that comes from exhausting the body as well as the mind Bernadetta hasn't felt for some time, and all of a sudden she finds herself missing it.

"You are mostly an archer, aren't you? I'm afraid I'm not very good at being an easy partner for those with less experience in melee."

"I use a lance, too," she says. "No one expects it, since I'm small and I always start with the bow; they're never prepared when I get in close."

Dimitri frowns at the mannequin in his hand, the small pile in the corner. "I might hurt you."

"I don't mind," Bernadetta says. "You'll be careful, and there are healers."

The frown doesn't clear, but after a long pause Dimitri nods, and raises no further objections when she picks a lance from the rack of training weapons. It's been a while, and she moves through a few forms first, relearning the weight of the weapon in her hand, the things it does to her balance. She started training with the bow young, on her father's insistence it was the only acceptably feminine form of defense, and the lance doesn't feel like it's a part of her the way her bow does but it still feels good to move with it. Dimitri tosses his broken mannequin into the pile, ties his hair back up, and takes a ready position while he waits for her; he still looks apprehensive, but Bernadetta isn't sure how to convince him he won't break her without simply showing him.

As soon as she takes her place Dimitri charges with a roar, and for a moment her out-of-practice brain wants to panic at the size of him, the strength, the fury of his shout, but it passes and she dodges easily. He charges again and this time she blocks, the impact of his lance against hers vibrating up her arms as he pushes her backwards. She ducks and rolls and comes up behind him, nearly managing to land a hit before he pivots and whacks her in the leg with the butt of his lance. He pushes in on her almost like he thinks they're working with swords, forces her to bring her lance up again and again to parry his hits, making it perfectly clear which of them is stronger. Bernadetta's faster, though, and as soon as she can she ducks out from under him and darts to the other end of the room. Dimitri doesn't charge this time, but his slow advance is no less intimidating - he's considering his options, how best to attack her, and as long as he hasn't made a decision she can't predict his move or how best to counter. 

He goes low, presumably because his height advantage means a high strike is more likely to miss, and when Bernadetta sees the lance's trajectory she simply braces herself and takes the hit. It's the right move for two reasons - first, because his shock keeps him standing there, vulnerable, and second because it _hurts_ , hurts enough she's surprised the bone doesn't break, and she can feel the pain pushing everything that isn't the fight out of her body, honing her to a sharp edge. She yells and pushes forward, puts her weight on the battered leg to enhance the pain and knocks his lance out of his hands. That's all the advantage he gives her, though, recovering from the surprise quickly enough to try and tackle her. She jumps backwards, barely out of his range, and once again darts to the far corner. And that is how it goes for - well, Bernadetta's not sure how long, she loses track of time in the easy back and forth of combat. Dimitri advances, he makes his move, she ducks or jumps or attempts her own hit, and she runs. Neither of them keep track of the hits they land, each new successful strike against Dimitri simply a flash of pride, each new bruising thwack of his lance just more fuel for her fire. He doesn't tire of chasing her; she doesn't tire of running.

Bernadetta is breathing harder than she has in probably years, sweaty hair clinging to her face and neck; she wishes she could simply remove her dress as easily as Dimitri did his shirt but she suspects that would simply end the fight. She shakes her head, squares up, and just to see what happens if she catches him off-guard this time she is the one who charges. Dimitri is ready as if it's what he's been waiting for the whole time; he drops his lance as she approaches and when she's close enough he hooks his arms under hers and throws her over his back. Bernadetta's lance goes flying across the room and she sees stars, all the wind knocked out of her by the impact, even as her blood roars and whatever battle instinct it is that makes the pain work screams for her to get back in the fight. She gasps, and coughs, and blinks to clear her vision, the room coming back into focus just in time to see Dimitri bearing down on her and get her hands up to grab his lance and keep him from crushing her chest. He kneels over her upside-down, sweat dripping from his forehead, wearing an easy, almost _relaxed_ smile. He could crush her if he wanted to, with all that strength he just used to toss her like she weighs nothing, but he's only applying enough pressure to let her know he's claiming his victory and the fight is over.

"Boar," Felix barks. "That's enough."

Dimitri hops to his feet in one fluid motion, taking his lance with him.

"Felix!" he says. "We were just finishing. Would you like a match?"

"You'll be late for dinner if you don't wash up now," Felix says; Bernadetta can't quite see him, but she’s sure of the exact scowl on his face from the venom in his tone. There are a thousand things he could be angry about, and very few of them are likely her or Dimitri, but it's so hard to tell with him sometimes. 

"Ah, of course," Dimitri says, and crouches to offer Bernadetta his hand. Standing up, even with his help, takes a nearly superhuman effort - the adrenaline leaves quickly, when it leaves, and she is left to remember, as she always does, that sometimes pain is just pain. She winces, and Dimitri's smile softens. "We may have overdone it a little; allow me to help you upstairs."

"No need," Felix says, stalking towards them, pulling one of his gloves off to reveal his hand already glowing faintly with a healing spell. Bernadetta has a few vulneraries in her pack upstairs, but she won't refuse more immediate help. He takes her arm, gently, and waves his other hand to dismiss Dimitri, who must be used enough to Felix's moods to know to leave without argument. The magic flows through Bernadetta, chilly and a little bit itchy, and as soon as Felix lets go of her arm she stretches it out. She'll be sore from the workout in the morning, but all her injuries are gone as if they never happened.

"Thank you," she says. "Bad day?"

"You need to be careful with him," Felix says, and tugs his glove back on as if his hand has offended him. "I'll have baths sent up, we can hold dinner until you're both decent."

Bernadetta also knows Felix well enough to know a dismissal when she hears it; she retrieves her pouch from the doorway where she left it, and finds Dimitri waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He offers her his arm and a sheepish smile, and though she doesn't really need it anymore Bernadetta is happy to accept his help up the stairs to their rooms.

-

_Bernadetta,_

_How is your stay in Fhirdiad treating you? Well, I hope; I know you would likely prefer to stick to the wilderness and the company of your plants, but I'm sure Dimitri appreciates this concession to his presence. I certainly appreciate it as a gesture to make him feel welcome, if that is what it was. I have only very faint memories of my time there as a girl, but as I recall the gardens were quite beautiful, so I hope you find something worth your time and attention. Perhaps if you bring back some paintings we can have another try at lessons, so I can relive the gardens through your eyes and make an attempt at recreating them._

_Are you and Dimitri getting on well? Hubert's been making fun of me - all I did was ask if he had a way of finding where you were, so I might get a letter to you before you made your way to Fhirdiad. I simply thought it would be nice if I could make sure you're as well suited to each other's company as I thought. I do have some responsibility for his happiness, after all, given the terms of the treaty, and I would only be doing my duty in making sure I hadn't made some mistake. And of course you have been looking forward to this trip for some time! I would hate to think I ruined it. I assume since he didn't return to Enbarr in disgrace and no one has yet found him dead by the side of the road he has proven a suitable traveling companion._

_I know you'll think I'm just being polite, but I miss you terribly. I don't think I realized quite how often sleep escapes me until I no longer had the pleasure of your late-night company to distract me from the hours passing. Ferdinand and Hubert simply fuss over me, as if either of them is any better. Hubert even raises his eyebrow at me that way he does, you know the way, when I suggested we send down to the kitchen for cake. If he wishes to deny himself the pleasure of dessert at two o'clock in the morning that's his right, but it's as if he doesn't even care that's when it tastes best._

_Yours,  
Edelgard_

Bernadetta sets Edelgard's letter aside, pulls a fresh sheet of paper from the pile and inks a quill to begin a reply. She has, she's sure, plenty of stories Edelgard would find interesting, and Edelgard is kind enough she'd probably find even the boring things - the Blaiddyd roses and the unfamiliar scent of the herb garden and the different greens she has to mix for her paintings than when she's home - worth her time to read about. And Edelgard did ask, before their departure, for Bernadetta to write and let her know how it was going; Bernie's been meaning to write her, only she asked with that sort of intensity she gets sometimes that makes Bernie a little nervous. It's important to her, clearly, that Bernadetta and Dimitri get along well, and what if Bernadetta somehow words it wrong and gives Edelgard the impression they aren't? 

The _dear Edelgard_ on the page stares at her accusingly, left on its own with no company on the blank expanse of the paper. Bernie sighs and touches her quill down long enough to create an ink blot before she manages to find any words at all.

_When I had Felix, there was something he needed I couldn’t give him, and he has it now_ she writes. _When I traveled with Emile, he was always looking for something to settle him, and he's found it. I think you will be happy to know that whatever happens on my travels with Dimitri, after me he's sure to find where he belongs._

Bernadetta rolls her eyes and goes so far as to scratch it out before crumpling up the paper and tossing it aside. She knows herself well enough to know writing a letter won't be happening tonight, so she sets the quill down, stands up, and walks to the window to stretch her legs. There's a light moving in the garden, casting the graceful shapes of leaves and vines and flowers into gnarled shadow, bathing Dimitri in its warm yellow glow. He is, at the moment, pacing near the high trellises of climbing flowers, and in the shadows it looks as if monsters loom over him, waiting patiently to strike. Bernadetta pushes some things off the nearby table so she can climb up and sit on it, and reaches for her paints so she can capture the moment. The fallen king surveying what he's lost, unaware of the dangers that wait in the place he once called home; she regrets she can't write and paint at the same time, the fable composing itself in her mind nearly as clear as the image in front of her eyes.

The colors won't be right, mixed hastily in the dim light of Bernadetta's room, but she can always redo it later. A pencil sketch won't capture it right, the pool of light, the way Dimitri himself seems to glow as he moves, the threat of the unseen closing in on him only apparent from the limits of his torchlight. Dimitri hasn't worn the fur-covered cloak from the war in some time, but Bernadetta paints him in it almost without thinking, the bulk of it emphasizing the hunch of his back, the defeated slump of his shoulders. He talks as he paces, and he might just be thinking out loud but in the fable about the dangers of returning home he is speaking in his childhood language to the monsters who don't remember it, trying and failing to remind them who he is. He doesn't belong there anymore, but he will be the last one to figure that out.

When Bernadetta does get around to writing Edelgard back, she should ask what she needs to do to give up her title and dissolve Varley. She can donate the land to Byleth and Garreg Mach, maybe, at least some of it; the mountains make passage difficult but she's sure it could be of some use. There might be a suitable place for an inter-house battlefield, so Gronder can remain at rest as a place of peace. Even if she just gives it to Edelgard it will surely be put to better use than it would under the distant, reluctant management of a Count who hates to be there. Let all the proposed experiments in government and schooling she and Ferdinand have planned have a home there before it's time to convince all the other nobles to give up their power.

The light from Dimitri's torch flickers and sputters wildly; for a moment Bernadetta worries it will go out and he'll be left in the dark, but the gust of wind passes as quickly as it came. She dips her brush in the yellow again and pushes her circle of light out farther, so the night sky and the shadowy figures begin to creep in muddy the edges. There's a careful balance to be struck - too heavy a hand and the colors will simply blend completely, leaving her with a ring of a sad greenish-brown lining the torch's glow, too light and it will feel like the dark and the light are avoiding each other, keeping carefully separate. Bernadetta holds it away from herself to get a different perspective, tips her head this way and that, and daubs a little more royal blue onto Dimitri's imagined cloak, so it stands out more against the shadows. Satisfied, she dips her brush in water and looks back to the garden; the light, and the man holding the torch, are both gone.

-

It rains the day Dimitri and Bernadetta are supposed to leave, the sort of downpour that feels as if someone upended a bucket over the world, so only a moment outside leaves one soaked through. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles over breakfast, affirming the decision not to set out until the next day, but almost as soon as that's decided it all dies down and leaves the palace blanketed in the rain, muffling everything so it feels as if one must shout to be heard. Sylvain goes out in the garden just, as far as Bernadetta can tell, because he's Sylvain and it seems like a Sylvain thing to do, and he shakes his wet hair at Ingrid while she yells at him to stop dripping everywhere. He winks at Bernadetta as he towels off, though she has no idea why; it's entirely possible that's also just because it's a Sylvain kind of thing to do. 

Dimitri is unhappy, that much even Bernadetta can tell, though his sour mood seems to be taking more of a toll on the people who know him better. Felix gives him an even wider berth than usual, Ingrid keeps picking up the report she's working on and moving from room to room as if to keep an eye on him (though always from at least one room away, a safe distance) until he finally retires to his own room, even Sylvain, drawn to bad moods like they personally offend him, puts his big smiles and bad jokes away and keeps to his rooms as the day wears on. Dedue, always careful with his words and actions, places a gentle hand on Bernadetta's shoulder as she goes to call him for lunch and suggests she might be wasting her time, in a tone that suggests something more serious than only that. It's only Ashe, who invites Bernadetta to join him in an out-of-the-way corner of the kitchens, who seems to be acting normal.

"I was in Gaspard for the worst of it," he says, filling two stone mortars with peppercorns. "I heard about it, of course, I know why they're jumpy, it just doesn't bring back bad memories for me."

Bernadetta nods; Ashe slides her one of the mortars and a pestle, and she begins crushing. They sit on a counter like children who want to help their parents, and it's easy at this angle to really put her weight into it. Ashe has to hold out his hand and stop her, show her that he's only cracking the peppercorns so they'll release a little more flavor rather than reducing them to a fine powder.

"I don't know much," she says. "I assume he'll tell me what's important. Felix mentioned headaches?"

"He likely has one today, they get bad when it storms," Ashe says, and gestures to their mortars. "This is for his tea, Dedue wants to make sure you leave with some, and since we have the time I thought fresh would be nicer than whatever we happened to still have in the stores."

"Felix also mentioned the tea."

"I don't know how much it really helps, but it makes Dedue feel better. If it does help, you'll have it, and if it doesn't it still might be nice to have something to give him. Or you can leave it by the side of a road somewhere when you need to lighten your packs, I guess, just don't tell Dedue."

"I think as long as Dimitri carries it, we can take as much as we want," Bernadetta says, and Ashe laughs. "The tea is safe."

Ashe takes the mortar and pestle from her and dumps its contents, as well as the contents of his own, into a sack that looks like it holds enough tea to last the rest of their trip and several moons beyond even if they drink it daily. He refills the mortars from a jar of dried slices of ginger and passes hers back. 

"You can powder this one," he says, so Bernadetta leans into it hard, working the muscles in her arms and shoulders that are still a little sore days after her sparring session.

"I've been around plenty of people who are unpleasant when they're in pain," Bernadetta says, thinking mostly of her father, who would roar his displeasure so it could be heard three territories over, or Hubert, who would fling mostly-harmless dark magic at people who disturbed him in the medical tent, "but he must be pretty bad, to have his closest friends so upset."

Ashe tilts his head and frowns, considering something, then sighs. "He was wild when Sylvain found him, apparently. He - whatever happened to him while he was held captive, and whatever he had to do to get free, Sylvain says he was almost more animal than man. Coming from Felix, I'd assume he was exaggerating, but Sylvain...but I wasn't here. Dedue called me back right before we marched on Gronder, and he was still in bad shape, but he could - well, you were at Gronder. He could handle the peace talks, at least."

Bernadetta nods, focuses on the slices of ginger crumbling in her mortar, the way they feel giving way under the pestle. She doesn't think a lot about the years she and Felix were working as mercenaries, about what everyone else was doing, because there are too many different things to regret and every way she looks, from here and now, was a wrong choice. Going back to Edelgard earlier probably wouldn't have actually ended the war any faster, but what if it had? Even one or two major battles would have spared so many people. But if she'd gone back earlier she would have been fighting for the side that tortured Dimitri, who's so kind to her now. And even if Edelgard didn't want Dimitri hurt - and Bernadetta has to believe she doesn't, or why would he have been living in Enbarr the past couple years, why would he have joined her to take out Those Who Slither In The Dark - it was her fault he was, and Bernadetta still joined her eventually. 

Ashe touches her arm, gently but enough to shake her out of her thoughts, and carefully takes the mortar full of - very finely - powdered ginger from her. His smile is gentle, and sad, and Bernadetta is suddenly so tired it's a wonder she stays sitting upright. She won the war, won _both_ the wars, and it feels like that should mean something more than it has. 

"He's so much better now, though!" Ashe says, a little too brightly, and fills their mortars again, with dried chilies this time. This must be an awfully spicy tea. "Sometimes it's almost like being back at Garreg Mach, but I'm less intimidated now. I suppose I should be, I outrank him."

"I think being back here is good for him," Bernadetta says.

"Maybe," Ashe says. "I don't think it would be if I were him."

"The last time I was home, I thought I'd be stuck there forever, until Hubert helped me set up a system that worked in my absence so I could be with my friends in Enbarr," Bernadetta says. "Maybe it's not being here, it's knowing that he gets to leave again."

Sylvain had them greeted by a stable boy who would be too young to know Dimitri by sight, put them in a regular guest wing without protesting, neglected to ask Dimitri a single question about policy or procedure or the running of a government while they caught up. The first time Bernadetta saw him without his jaw set and his shoulders high and tight since they crossed the border into Blaiddyd was at dinner that night, all talk of running Faerghus banned for the sake of family dinner.

Dimitri must have thought if he crossed the threshold of the palace someone might try to crown him and sit him on the throne again; no wonder he seems more relaxed now. Ashe hums, thoughtful, and turns his attention back to his work, crushing the chilies into flakes. The rain beats against the stone walls in a steady, soothing rhythm; the cooks and kitchen staff move in and out, volume rising and dropping in waves as they prep things for dinner and leave to let them sit. Ashe keeps passing her things to crush with the pestle or crumble in her hands, cinnamon and nettle and herbs she only recognizes by scent, and slowly they fill the sack with the bits and pieces of Dimitri's tea blend. It's a bit like being back on kitchen duty at Garreg Mach again, in a way that makes Bernadetta ache a little. It seems like everything reminds her of the academy or the war, like she can't ever really move forward.

Ashe ties off the sack when it's full and shakes it vigorously, mixing everything up. He tosses it to Bernadetta and laughs as he motions for her to throw it back, and they make a game of trying to get it to spin in the air, to shake it up more. No tea blend has ever been more thoroughly blended, Bernadetta thinks. Once Ashe decides it's had enough, he reopens the bag and sniffs it, presumably checking to make sure it's right; he passes it to Bernadetta to smell, too, and it hits her like a brick wall, all heat and bitterness. She must make a face, because Ashe laughs again.

"Dimitri isn't very picky," Ashe says. "I think at some point Dedue gave up on trying to make it taste good and just added everything he could think of that might soothe a headache."

"It's very strong," she says. "I'm sure it's good."

"I've tried it a few times and all I really taste is 'spicy'," Ashe says, and hops off the counter. Bernadetta watches him bob and weave his way around the kitchen, ducking under cooks moving trays from place to place and squeezing through narrow paths between tables and counters to keep out of the way. He collects a simple blue teapot, a pair of cups and saucers, a tray, then sets about measuring tea into the pot and filling it with boiling water. Bernadetta assumes it's for them, a treat for finishing their task, until he brings it over and that same strong, spicy smell hits her. "Do you want to bring it up to him?"

"Oh! I - Dedue said I should stay away."

"He's just being protective," Ashe says. "But I think if he _is_ in one of the moods everyone's so worried about, better you see it here than when the two of you are alone miles from the nearest town. I can take it up if you want, though, I don't mind."

Ashe probably has a point, though Bernadetta still isn't entirely sure what anyone means when they talk about his mood. Maybe it really is just that he's one of those people who can't handle being uncomfortable and that means more coming from royalty, though that doesn't match with the Dimitri she knows who crawls through brambles to pick flowers for her. "More animal than man" sounds violent, but it seems odd if he were up there throwing things or being a danger Ashe of all people would want to bring him tea, or that anyone would be worried about a headache. Bernie doesn't want to pry, or sound like she's gossiping, or ask hard questions, so she nods and slides off the counter and takes the tray from Ashe. He's right, she might as well find out while they're here among friends.

There's no noise coming from Dimitri's room when she approaches, and she stands there a few moments just to be sure. Satisfied he isn't actually throwing things, or whatever it is she was afraid of, Bernadetta finds a cart for the tea tray and sets it down so she can knock. Dimitri grunts, something low and guttural Bernie can't make out, so she knocks again just in case he was telling her to go away. Another grunt, but he doesn't sound angry, and if she misunderstood she can just, um, turn and run away - she's pretty good at that by now. It's dark in Dimitri's room, all the curtains drawn and no candles or lanterns lit, and in the heat of the day and the damp of the rain it's muggy like a greenhouse, a little hard to breathe. She looks to the bed first but it's empty, even the pillows and bedclothes tossed to the floor. As her eyes adjust she finally sees him, leaning against the wall as if he'll fall without it, pale and damp with sweat.

"No," he says, "she did. It is...good for me."

"Dimitri?" Bernadetta says, quietly so as not to startle him. "I brought you some tea."

He turns from the wall, unsteady on his feet, and looks in her direction; his eye is glassy, and it takes him a moment to focus on her.

"Ah," he says. "Thank you."

"You look like you need to lie down," she says. "I could - "

"No," he says. "I do not - I find it difficult to be still on days like this."

Bernadetta nods; his unsteadiness makes her nervous, but he knows what he needs better than she does, and if he falls she can always help him up. She wheels the tea cart over to the table by the window, much less cluttered than her own has been and pours him a cup. She starts to pour her own, but pauses.

"Would you rather be alone?"

After a long pause, where he seems to be looking somewhere past her, Dimitri shakes his head, and she pours her own cup of his odd, spicy headache blend. 

"You may go if you wish, of course," he says. "I can be...difficult, when they fail to leave me be."

It dawns on Bernadetta suddenly what the problem must be, the source of his moods; living in Enbarr and rarely sleeping, as she does, she was often the one awake to soothe Edelgard or Ferdinand when time didn't work right for them and they were suddenly back in the war, in the middle of a battlefield or standing over a mass grave instead of safe in the palace. Bernie hasn't had the same problem, the nightmares or the visions, whatever one might call them, but of course it makes sense Dimitri would, another one right in the thick of things, and having gone through so much more than simply battles besides. And of course nobody wanted to talk about the war plaguing Dimitri with someone who fought on Edelgard's side, who was prepared to face him at Gronder and do what it took to win.

Bernadetta doesn't know whether he's more like Ferdinand, who simply needed touch and gentle conversation, or Edelgard, who needed silence while she cried and confessed before she could tolerate being held or spoken to, but that's alright. She can be here, and if he needs more hopefully he will either ask or make it clear some other way. For now, there is tea, and he takes his cup and drinks half of it in one big swallow though it's still so hot it would burn Bernadetta's tongue if she dared take a sip.

Dimitri paces, legs steadier as he moves. Perhaps he had just been standing in the same place for too long, unable to keep track of time with no light from outside and no one coming or going. He's still pale, still clammy, and when he tries to look at anything it seems to take some time to truly focus on it, but at least it doesn't look like he might fall any minute and hit his head or something equally terrible. Bernadetta drinks her tea - Ashe is right, it does mostly taste spicy with no room for much else, but right at the end, when the spice fades away, there's something a little sweet and herbal she finds intriguing - and tries to make noise regularly, setting her cup down more firmly than she might, drumming her fingers on the table, making sure he can't forget she's there and be startled anew.

"No," he says, every now and then, the rest of his muttering mostly inaudible. An argument, a protest, a simple denial of what his mind is showing him? Each time he speaks loud enough for her to hear, she looks up just in case, and he is always looking somewhere different, but always a million miles away. Bernadetta isn't sure how much time passes; he takes one more refill of tea, as does she, and when she pours him a third it’s cooled enough that no more steam rises. She studies the Blaiddyd Roses in a vase on the table, the thick, rich fabric of the curtains, the wood grain of the table. Bernadetta is good at being quiet and still, and for the right reasons she doesn't mind it. Dimitri comes to sit with her eventually, his face drawn and tired, and she reaches out to press the back of her hand to his sweaty forehead before she thinks to ask permission.

"You're warm," she says. "Would you like a cool cloth?"

"No need to trouble yourself," he says, like so many people in Bernadetta's life do when she offers them her care.

"It's no trouble," she says, but she waits for him to nod before she gets up to go to her room, taking a cloth napkin with her. She had a basin of water sent up that morning to wash her face in and never got around to it, and though the day is warm the water is at least cooler than Dimitri's skin. Bernadetta soaks the napkin and wrings it out just enough to keep from dripping; when she returns Dimitri is sitting awkwardly where she left him, all his muscles tense with the need to move.

"Here," she says, and comes up behind him to wrap the cloth around the back of his neck. "You'll have to hunch, but you won't have to stay still like if I put it on your forehead."

"Yes," Dimitri says. "She is. And gentle."

His voice is hushed, as if he doesn't mean for her to overhear his conversation, so she simply pretends she hasn't. The teapot and both cups are empty, so she gathers them up and sets them back on the tray, then looks at Dimitri again, hunched over the table with the cloth cooling his neck, staring once again into the distance. 

"Would you like me to stay?"

"No, thank you," Dimitri says; she watches him for a moment longer, to make sure he isn't about to follow up with something else, something she can do or ask someone else to do for him. and eventually he turns and smiles at her. It is thin and tight and certainly forced for her benefit, and Bernadetta feels bad for making him feel he has to put in the effort but she smiles back anyway, as warmly as she can. "If you would, though, I...may be open to eating dinner with everyone, if you wouldn't mind coming to check."

"Of course," Bernadetta says. It's hard to imagine him being up to it, and she might ask Dedue if it's likely he's simply pretending to keep people from worrying, but it's a harmless enough promise to make. Dimitri nods, and lifts himself from the chair as if his weight is too much for his body and the effort is almost too great, and when Bernadetta wheels the tea cart out of the room he's gone back to pacing and muttering, his head bowed to keep the cool, damp napkin in place.


	3. Belladonna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Bernadetta bond, battle, and cross a line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sex scene in this chapter is somewhat dubiously consensual, more notes at the end if that's something you're concerned about.

"So you are upset Felix is courting someone else?" Dimitri asks.

"No!" Bernadetta says, perhaps more loudly than is necessary. "That would be stupid. If I cared about him spending the rest of his life with someone who isn't me, I would have stayed."

"You might have cared more about the war, and still cared a little about Felix's future," Dimitri says. "But if that is not the problem, I'm sorry, I fail to see what is."

Bernadetta looks up at the stars, like maybe they can help her figure out the set of things that have been swirling in her head without any real shape or definition for days. It's a clear night and the sky is the sort of perfect not-quite-black that looks like velvet, like if everything were turned upside down and she fell from the surface it would be like landing in the softest bed. 

"I don't know if you remember me from the Academy at all," she says, eventually. "I spent a lot of time trying to be invisible, I never know how well I succeeded."

"I faced you in a lance tournament once," Dimitri says. "Your knees were shaking so badly I barely needed to touch you to knock you down, which I suppose was a blessing because as frightened as you were I truly did not wish to fight you. Other than that, I mostly remember how much happier Felix seemed when you started spending time with him, though he was avoiding me by then so I only saw that from a distance."

"Manuela always wanted me to get my confidence up, as if that was the problem," Bernadetta says, with a little laugh; she'd forgotten the disaster of the tournament. "It wasn't - I was afraid, I was so afraid of everything all the time, and it's funny, now, because I was so much safer at Garreg Mach than at home. But I wasn't allowed friends, so I'd never been around people my age. My father was cruel and my mother was rarely home, so I was used to being around people who didn't really...want me around, at all. I was just supposed to be quiet until I got married, and then my father was close to securing me a good marriage and it fell through, and he blamed me of course. So I was in a new place, surrounded by people who were - who were loud, and had no reason to like me, and I was supposed to learn new things and take exams and be impressive even though I had failed at the only thing I was ever supposed to do."

"That would have frightened anyone, I imagine."

"Maybe. But I - Sylvain didn't treat me like there was anything wrong with me, or like he just needed to calm me down to keep me from screaming long enough to get out of a conversation he didn't want to be in. I would run away, and he would give me a little time and then come find me, because he wanted to keep talking. And he didn't - he wasn't the only person who was kind to me, of course, but he was the first one who didn't _have_ to be. I wasn't in his house, we didn't have chores together, I didn't eat at regular meal times so we didn't even need to run into each other then. He's - he's the one who explained to me the difference between the way Felix was mean to me and the way he's mean when he doesn't actually like someone. He was so - Sylvain is important to me, and he was just going to be unhappy for the rest of his life because I got to Felix first. That isn't - I didn't want that."

"But if he had said something, wouldn't you have simply stopped seeing Felix? Perhaps he did not wish for you to choose to be unhappy the rest of your life."

"Maybe. Or I wouldn't have, but I would have known."

"Is that - do you think that is better?"

Bernadetta looks away from the beautiful bed of a sky, then, to find Dimitri watching her. He isn't needling her, the way Ferdinand does to see if she might reveal her true feelings if she has an outburst, nor interviewing her the way Hubert does to find the fault in her logic so he can try to reason her out of being upset. Dimitri just looks curious, head tilted a little to one side, like he's truly never thought about the difference.

"I suppose it depends," Bernadetta says. "Not for Sylvain, who would have to know that I made the choice to keep hurting him. But doesn't it - if I am going to hurt someone, I'd rather it be with an arrow to the front than by putting my lance away carelessly so it falls on an unsuspecting foot. The first will be a worse pain, but the second could have been avoided entirely. Of course I would rather never hurt anybody, especially not someone so important to me, but I would rather know I'm causing pain than find out I _have_ caused pain."

"I see," Dimitri says. "I would, all things considered, rather not carry any weapons at all."

Bernadetta can't look at him anymore, the tight frown or the furrow of his brow or his eye cast down at his hands like he can still see the blood on them, a feeling she knows well enough. The sky is still beautiful and soft, the night calm, and as far as she knows all the people she has ever hurt lie dead in their miserable graves or have found their own happiness and forgiven her. Maybe she can't disarm herself entirely, but staying at an arm's length from most people seems to do the trick, to keep her out of range, and maybe that's the best anyone can ask for.

Dimitri is still looking at his hands when she rises to go to sleep; if he comes to bed at all, it's long after Bernadetta falls asleep.

-

"No!" Dimitri says, loud enough to make her jump, and his strong hand closes around her wrist hard enough to hurt just a little. He's so careful usually, it's more surprising than anything, and she looks up to see his face furrowed in concern. "Not those."

"Are you sure?" Bernadetta asks. "The book says - "

"Whatever the book says, you should be looking for clusters of berries. Look."

Dimitri points with his free hand to a few more identical plants next to the one Bernadetta was about to retrieve her prize from, all of which have berries spread sparsely throughout rather than thickly grouped together in bunches. Now that she’s looking, she can see the berries she was about to pluck have their stems tangled, wrapped around each other to create the illusion of clusters from what are in fact individual berries.

"Oh," she says, a little sheepish. "Thank you."

"The leaves create a terrible rash," Dimitri says, "and I do not know what effect the berries have, just that eating them would be a poor choice. Here."

Dimitri lets go of her and walks a little way into the forest; Bernadetta keeps one eye on him while pulling her graphite and a spare bit of paper from her pocket to quickly sketch the troublesome plant so she can look it up later. For all his bulk, Dimitri moves almost silently through the trees, stepping carefully around twigs that might snap or dead leaves that might crunch so he's farther away than she expects when she looks away from her drawing again. Bernadetta isn't so quiet when she hurries to catch up with him, all her stealth training focused on cities and towns where agents of Those Who Slither In The Dark might be working, but it's not as if there are any enemy soldiers to alert. 

"I believe this is what you are after," he says, crouching over a dense bush dotted with berries more red than the ones he stopped her from picking earlier. "You see? Similar leaves, but there are fewer of them, and the berries are clustered differently."

"So you do know some about plants," Bernadetta says, and his cheeks color a little.

"I used to play in the Fraldarius lands as a boy," he says. "Not this far east, of course - I believe we may actually be in Galatea territory, now - but sometimes we were allowed to camp out, if we could prove we were able to take care of ourselves. Most of the lessons were simply 'don't eat anything', though I did eventually learn the difference between the good and the bad."

Bernadetta ties the cloth she brought into a makeshift basket and begins to pick berries for their lunch. Dimitri joins her; he crushes more between his fingers than he manages to drop intact into the basket, but he doesn't seem to mind and they don't need many. 

"I didn't go outside much," Bernadetta says. "But I liked plants, so I learned about what we grew in the gardens, and then I ran out of those and still wanted to know more."

"And here you are," Dimitri says, "still learning."

Bernadetta pauses for a moment, runs the words and his tone through her head again to try and figure them out. He sounds impressed, almost, or at the very least _warm_ , but Bernie isn't used to that kind of approval of her fascinations and there must be a catch. She was supposed to learn to care for the flowers because it was a suitably domestic hobby, not spend hours with the gardener's assistant or in the library reading about dangerous plants; she was supposed to learn embroidery to impress her future husband, not to replicate macabre imagery from the library books she wasn't supposed to be reading; she was supposed to learn to sew to take care of the mending, not to frighten away her only real marriage option with strange dolls. Even at the monastery, the first place anyone was really, truly interested in her or her silly little hobbies, people would get tired if she talked too much or too long about what she thought were the interesting parts. She can't think of a reason Dimitri would criticize her, though, not with pretty words and a backhand at least, and he certainly doesn't _seem_ tired of her.

"On the subject of learning," Dimitri says, oblivious to Bernadetta's second-guessing, "I believe we discussed you teaching me how to mend my own clothes?"

"Oh," Bernadetta says, "of course."

"Good," Dimitri says, "because I seem to have torn my cuff."

He holds out his arm to show her, and sure enough there's a split where he's pushed his sleeve up his arm to keep from getting berry juice on it. It slips down his forearm as he shows her, dangerously close to a few drips from the crushed berries, and he does an awkward sort of shimmying move to urge it back into place without touching it with his stained hands.

"When - "

Dimitri ducks his head, sheepish. "I, ah, may have pushed a little too hard when I rolled it up."

"Okay," Bernadetta says, and rises with the makeshift basket of berries. "We'll have lunch, and I'll show you what to do."

He nods, and smiles, and dutifully follows her back to the clearing where the horses are happily grazing. The pack horse has walked as far from the few bags they removed from him as possible, and Bernadetta wanders over to pet him sympathetically; perhaps they should rearrange the bags a little, give him something of a break. Dimitri lays out a blanket and their dishes, and sets to cutting the last of the bread they brought from Fhirdiad, likely just this side of too stale, and some cheese to go with it. Bernadetta takes the berries to the stream to dip them in the clear water, and fills their tin cups while she's there. Along with some jerky Dedue sent, it's a good lunch, simple and hearty, and Bernadetta eats her fill then pulls her book of Wild Plants of Faerghus from her pack to study the difference between the poison plant and the one Dimitri led her to. It would be easier if the book were illustrated, but for now she tucks the sketch she made in the woods in place on the correct page and waits for Dimitri to finish rinsing their dishes.

When Dimitri returns he's stripped to his undershirt, which of course he needs to do to mend his cuff but Bernadetta is still unaccustomed to his habit of simply undressing whenever he feels the urge. Then again, she's never spent much time with someone who lived on his own in secret for years while the world thought him dead, so there are probably many habits that make sense to him that wouldn't to most.

"I won't be showing you how to make a lion yet," she says as he sits before her, and he laughs. 

"It will be quite a feat if you can show me anything at all," he says. "I thought Mercedes had, and yet here I am."

"You just didn't practice," Bernadetta says, fishing her sewing kit from her pack. "You have to keep up with it; I'm sure you'll have lots of chances, if you insist on doing your own mending, since this seems to happen a lot."

"I don't always know my own strength," he says.

"In that case, I'll thread the needle for you."

Dimitri laughs again, though a little quieter, and Bernadetta looks up from the needle to see the hint of a shadow fall over his face, darkening his eyes and pulling the corners of his lips down. That's not something to joke about, then, though she's not sure whether it's the strength or the needing help that's off-limits. It's easy enough to avoid either of those, of course, or both if she needs to. He sits patiently while she demonstrates how to start - knotting the thread, making the first stitch a little below where the tear begins, backstitching to reinforce - and concentrates so deeply when she hands him the needle to try for himself he looks a little like a small child learning his letters for the first time. He moves slowly and carefully at first, though the needle bends a little in his fingers, and once he's dutifully repeated what she showed him he pauses and looks to her for approval.

"Keep going," she says, and nods. "It's just more of the same, I'll show you how to finish when you get there."

Nearly as soon as Dimitri begins again, with a little more confidence, Bernadetta sees the problem, though she feels a little bad putting her hand out to stop him when he's clearly so pleased to have gotten it right. 

"Don't speed up," she says. "There's a - it's hard to explain, but the fabric will sort of tell you when you've pulled it too tight. You have to go slowly at first to get used to it."

"Ah," he says, as she takes the needle and tugs the puckered stitch he just made until it loosens a little. "I believe Mercedes also told me I pulled too hard."

"Everyone does, at the beginning," Bernadetta says, and gives him back the needle so he can continue. He takes her direction well; his next several stitches are made with painstaking slowness, and the first is too loose but the third and fourth are, though crooked, nearly perfect. "It feels like it should be stronger that way, but it weakens all the places around it."

Dimitri nods, brow furrowed in concentration. Bernadetta can see how hard he's working to control himself in the set of his jaw, the tight tendons in his neck, the hunch of his shoulders. It's not difficult to bend a sewing needle, but Bernadetta's certainly never done it accidentally, without even noticing - how strong is he, really, if he truly lets go? Perhaps even he doesn't know. Slowly, slowly, with only a little puckering, Dimitri closes the tear, and she's once again reminded of a small child at his first lessons when he proudly presents the sleeve. 

"Nicely done," she says, and shows him how to finish it off, with more backstitching to secure the tail, a small knot, and the end tucked neatly away. "Mercedes taught you well, you just needed a reminder."

"I suppose," he says. "Perhaps now I can keep from burdening you."

"Oh, it's no burden," Bernadetta says, tucking away the needle - she can straighten it later, out of his sight - and spare thread. "When I don't have a whole strike force's worth of torn pants and a march at dawn, I find it relaxing. Maybe you will, too."

She nearly cringes as the words leave her mouth; he still looks tense all over, clenching and unclenching his firsts to work the stiffness out of his knuckles. If he's sensitive about his strength, if he has to keep so tightly controlled, it's not likely he's ever going to find it a soothing pastime.

"Maybe," Dimitri says, and rises to begin packing up their little picnic. It isn't until they're back on their horses and well on their way that his shoulders finally loosen and relax.

-

The innkeeper looks surprised to see them, and for a moment Bernadetta worries they aren't actually far enough from Blaiddyd for Dimitri to go unnoticed. Dimitri doesn't seem concerned, though, and, well, of course they would be unused to guests, as the road from here goes back the way they came, nearly a week's ride from Fhirdiad, south through the mountains separating Faerghus from the Leicester Alliance, and east for a few miles before disappearing into the wreckage of Ailell. Travelers coming up through the mountains are likely the only customers, and just as likely infrequent.

"I'll sell you a map for an extra gold piece," he says, as Bernadetta pays for their room. "You don't want to make a wrong turn out of here, that's for sure."

Bernadetta suspects they have a different definition of 'wrong turn', but she pays for the map anyway, and for a hot lunch on top of the dinner included with their room. Dimitri found a hooded cloak in his own size in Fhirdiad, and he has the hood pulled up now, the fine leather eyepatch Edelgard had made for him in Enbarr replaced with a simpler cloth one. Neither of them have bathed aside from a quick dip in a cold river since Fhirdiad, and while Bernadetta's clothes are fine and mark her quite obviously as imperial nobility, Dimitri with his simple traveler's clothes and greasy hair has the look of a vagrant, or a refugee. A down-on-his-luck local grunt, perhaps, hired by a pampered lady afraid of doing her own heavy lifting. She waits until they've been served soup with a thick layer of cheese on top and slices of crusty bread before laying the innkeeper's map out on the table, along with her own, and her notes from Linhardt.

"It would be easy to double back and book passage to Derdriu," Dimitri says, and points at a spot on the coast about two days' ride back the way they came. Bernadetta barely glances at it before tilting her head to study his face, try to guess why he's bringing it up now when he said nothing about the plan initially, or when they passed whichever port he's offering as a safe choice. She doesn't have Hubert's talent for reading people, though, and doesn't yet know Dimitri well enough to get by.

"Are you afraid?" she asks; it's not quite the right question, because she thinks she might know both the real answer and what a man like Dimitri is likely to _say_ is the real answer. 

"A fair number of rebellions have tried to make use of Ailell, through the ages," Dimitri says. "All thinking the same thing, that it is a place troops can be moved without anyone spotting them. Most of those rebellions died there."

"Linhardt's confident about the changes we should see there," Bernadetta says. "If nothing's different we'll know right away. But two people aren't a rebel army, and Claude managed to move all the forces House Daphnel could spare through not that long ago. I'm not worried."

"Then neither am I," Dimitri says, and turns his attention to his soup.

Emile told Bernie once she had the strangest sense of danger of anyone he'd ever met; she chose to take it as a compliment, but in truth she's still not sure that's how he meant it. Hubert said something similar right before he asked her to join Emile and strike down various agents of Those Who Slither In The Dark so when the main force took down their stronghold there'd be no one left to rebuild, but since he was giving her such an important task she didn't really question how he meant it. 

_You faint to look upon my armor,_ Emile said, _or when someone smiles at you the wrong way. Yet here you are volunteering to walk right up to one of the most powerful mages in existence and bait him into combat._

_I think your intuition may be telling you where your real skills lie,_ Hubert said. It wouldn't do to be afraid of something you so excel at.

Bernadetta spoons some cheese onto a slice of bread and thinks about warning Dimitri that he shouldn't trust her about whether going into Ailell should scare them, but she doesn't think he truly needed her opinion to make that decision for himself. Just about the only time Felix would admit being wary of something was when he was trying to figure out if Bernadetta had truly given it enough thought before agreeing, determining if she was going to be in over her head and cause a problem, and though Dimitri and Felix are very different people Bernadetta thinks they might be alike in this. He's reading Linhardt's notes while he eats, so he'll know as much as she does about the state of the valley by the time they leave in the morning.

Bernadetta pulls her map closer and retrieves her drawing supplies from her bag so she can trace the shape of Ailell onto a clean sheet of paper and sketch out a route through. Staying close to the coast would be quickest - and safest - so of course Linhardt asked her not to, since he needs a more thorough report of how the area is recovering. Still, it's relatively easy riding - picking their way through hot coal and lava isn't ideal, but the ground is flat enough even that won't lose them much time - and they should only need to camp one night. If they camp at all; she’s seen Dimitri go with little to no sleep often enough she knows only her own exhaustion will limit them. As long as they don't push the horses too hard they can keep on through the night in a pinch.

It's easy enough to pretend this is just something she's doing for Linhardt, that she's too soft and too easy when her friends ask for things, but there's a twist low in her gut she hasn't felt since she and Emile were hunting down rogue agents during the war in the shadows - she's excited. If Linhardt is right, she might get to see plants no one has seen for more than a thousand years, or entirely new species coming to life as the land rebuilds itself. Her eyes might be the first to see a plant hardy enough to dig itself out of the burning landscape, to withstand the heat, to illustrate that no torment is forever; maybe she'll name it after herself. Maybe there'll be something to name after Dimitri, too, something that suits him more than the Blaiddyd Roses.

"You're smiling," he says, pushing his bowl aside. The soup is too salty and too fatty for Bernadetta, and she's struggled to get through half of it, but she hasn't yet seen Dimitri fail to finish a meal.

"Oh," she says; she hadn't noticed. "I just - um. Here's our route."

Dimitri takes the page from her and looks it over, compares it to the map, and then he smiles himself, a look in his eye she recognizes from when they sparred, from the moment she took a direct hit without flinching and he realized who he was fighting.

"Right into the heart of it, then?"

"I - Linhardt - "

"Of course," he says, and hands back the map. "For Linhardt."

Dimitri gets up and exchanges a few quiet words with the innkeeper before going outside; he'll be chopping firewood, then, or perhaps he was looking for a quiet place he can train without being disturbed. He's hunted for dinner at a few places they've stayed; once, not far north of Garreg Mach, there was a pest problem and he spent half the night in the basement with a dagger. Being recognized was, Bernadetta is finally figuring out, a convenient excuse to cover the real reason he prefers camping - he needs the labor, the exertion. Idleness builds something up in him, a tension he can't bear, an agitation he can't hide, and when they camp he doesn't need to explain disappearing into the woods for hours as anything more than "hunting". 

The remnants of the soup aren't getting any more appetizing the longer they cool, so Bernadetta finishes off the bread, gathers up her papers, and retreats to their room to continue working. Linhardt's notes are all theoretical, but comprehensive, and slowly but surely Bernadetta turns her little sketch into a more thorough map, one she can edit and add to as they travel. The sun is beginning to set when she finishes; Dimitri is nowhere to be found when she goes down for dinner, a simple meal of poultry and roast vegetables, nor does he come in after she has a bath sent up or while she's making use of it, and though the room is small Bernie ends up running herself through some basic lance forms just to do something other than worry. Dimitri can more than take care of himself, certainly, but anyone can be caught off guard, and out here where the forests grow wild right up to the edge of Ailell any number of things could go wrong. 

"Ah, yes, thank you," she hears from downstairs just as she's considering grabbing her cloak and going out to find him, and then Dimitri's heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. He enters the room carrying a plate of the same dinner she had earlier, presumably cold, eating the vegetables with dirty fingers. No injuries, no apparent distress; nothing was wrong, clearly, he was just being Dimitri. He nods at her in a quiet greeting, and lights the lantern next to the small cot, like he does everywhere even though as the larger one he should be taking the bed. Bernadetta finishes running through her lance forms and settles into bed, determined to get a good night's sleep before they set off into the Valley of Torment.

-

Dimitri doesn't take the heat well, that much was obvious almost immediately and only becomes clearer the longer they ride. His cloak is long gone, and his heavy overshirt swapped for a lighter one now soaked through with sweat, his leather eyepatch once again tucked safely in his bag and a cloth one in its place to soak up the sweat of his brow better. He started with his hair loose, then half-tied up, then pulled off his neck entirely in a messy bun, until they stopped for lunch and he asked Bernadetta to either braid it into a crown atop his head or cut it off entirely. His cheeks are red, his chest flushed, and he's needed to stop for water more than the horses. Bernadetta grew up in the mountains and isn't as accustomed to the heat as some of her fellow Adrestians, but she's not suffering nearly so much as she is, and she feels quite bad about it. It's not as if she could suggest he wear a light shift dress, though, which is probably helping at least a little.

"I thought the temperature was supposed to be better," Dimitri says, pulling up alongside her and handing back the half-empty waterskin she'd given to him full. She lets him keep it, since she has another full one at her side and isn't going through them as quickly. 

"It is," Bernadetta says, though she tries to sound sympathetic. She doesn't have any way to take a specific reading, only Linhardt is likely to be able to do that, but the rivers of lava have almost entirely cooled over and hardened so they aren't heating the air, and when she left a cup of water out during lunch it failed to boil like Linhardt claimed it would have before. "Just not all the way."

Dimitri grumbles and falls back again, going easier on his horse than Bernadetta because it has a much heavier load. Even with some of the bags normally carried by the pack horse Bernadetta can't compare to Dimitri's weight, though Victory is strong and seems to be handling it well. Bernadetta glances towards the sky, squints at the angle of the sun and tries to remember where it was last time they stopped; it's likely time for another break. She leads them towards a rock outcropping, shorter than she is but tall enough to provide perhaps a very little shade for Dimitri if he sits and hunches, and rolls her eyes when he tries to help her water the horses.

"It's alright," she says, and the heat must truly be getting to him because he simply sits and rests his back against the rock rather than insisting. She hands him another full waterskin like he's just one of the horses, counts the ones they have left so she knows they're still on track to make it through to Daphnel, and leaves them all happily hydrating while she wanders a bit to look at moss. Not exactly the great discovery she was hoping for, but it's fascinating to see anything green here, when all the pictures are done in harsh blacks and reds, rock and lava and fire and death, and it's possible someone more knowledgeable than Bernie could find some interesting magical properties to the first living thing to take root in Ailell's unforgiving soil. If her map is right and her navigational skills are what they should be, they're about halfway through, and she labels a jar with the approximate location before scraping some moss and soil into it to store with the rest. 

By the time she gets back, Dimitri has finished his water and looks a little better, less like he might fall over any moment. Bernadetta lets him rest a little longer while she packs her fresh jar of moss with the other samples she's taken and fishes out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from her own brow. She drains half her waterskin in a few big gulps, then pulls out Linhardt's notes to check them over. According to him Ailell didn't used to cool down much at night, since most of the heat came from the lava, but he has a theory that if most of the lava rivers have cooled as expected that might change.

"We could camp now," Bernadetta says, looking again to the sky and the position of the sun. "If we sleep early, and rise early, we could be almost to Daphnel before the sun gets too high tomorrow."

"Will it be difficult to look for plant life in the dark?"

Bernadetta laughs a little and holds out her arms, gesturing to the flat, featureless land with its minimal decoration of moss as far as the eye can see.

"I don't think I'll find much either way," she says, and Dimitri nods.

"An early night it is, then," he says, and pushes to his feet to help. As worn out as he seems to be from the heat, it's probably less necessary to tire himself out than usual, but that's fine because there isn't much to do. Wildlife won't return to Ailell until it's healed more, so there's no point to hunting, and if there's no fresh meat there's no reason to cook, and even if there were, Bernadetta could probably do it all over one of the remaining lava pools. A cooking fire would just make them both more miserable, and they certainly don't need one to keep warm while they sleep. Dimitri pitches the tent and arranges their bedrolls, moving as slowly as if through something thicker and more syrupy than just air, and Bernadetta unpacks enough for a very light dinner, mostly jerky and a few handfuls of dried fruits. Dimitri lays out their usual blanket as if it's going to be a full meal, though both their outfits are already likely ruined from so many breaks taken sitting and kneeling in the black dust.

Ailell is an eerie place even as it struggles back to life; it's so flat and open sound carries for ages, but there's little wind and no life to _make_ any sound. The horses are restless as they eat, stamping their hooves and pacing, though even the youthful pack horse is well-trained enough not to go far. Hopefully it will be good for them as well to do the bulk of tomorrow's traveling during the cooler part of the day - they're southern horses, shorter-haired and better suited to the heat than most, but of course Ailell is a far cry from all but the hottest summer day in Enbarr.

"Do you hear that?" Dimitri asks. There's an odd sort of rustling sound, almost like something dragging, but it's hard to hear clearly over the fuss the horses are making. Bernadetta turns to look at Dimitri, to see if perhaps he's picked up on a direction it could be coming from, or has an idea what it might be, and because she isn't the girl she used to be, because she's battle-scarred and war-hardened and a perfectly capable fighter, she doesn't scream.

"Move slowly," she says, "and look behind you."

Dimitri does, and because Bernadetta is watching him closely for his reaction she notices the way he stiffens briefly, his hand clenching as if around the shaft of a lance, but he otherwise doesn't give anything away. For a long, long moment everything is very still - the hulking demonic beast flanked by two smaller ones sniffs the air, nostrils flaring, but doesn't advance on them yet. Still assessing how much of a threat they are, perhaps, or how satisfying a snack, or maybe its eyesight just isn't very good and it's trying to make sense of everything.

"Get to the horses," Dimitri says, quietly, evenly, as still as a statue. "Crawl if you have to."

"We won't outrun them."

"The weapons," Dimitri says, and oh, goddess, the two of them against three demonic beasts? The odds of outrunning them, even heavy with their packs and exhausted from the heat, seem better, but if Bernie's going to be a snack she's going to make them work for it first. She closes her eyes for a moment, breathes deep, and remembers one of her missions with Emile that nearly went sideways, a target in a manor who'd been wise enough to replace her household staff with mercenaries. Bernie made it out then and she’ll make it out now if there’s anything she has to say about it.

Bernadetta shifts to her hands and knees, paying careful attention to each motion, avoiding anything unnecessary. She crawls, so slowly it makes her tired muscles tremble, silent as the grave even as she moves from the blanket to the bare earth and the smooth, glassy rocks poke into her palms, her knees. The beasts aren't moving, Dimitri isn't moving, and even the horses go still as she gets closer, calming them with her presence. It would be nice if they would stay agitated, give her room to make a little noise without drawing attention; it would be nice if they would stay afraid, because she'd rather they bolt than get hurt.

It's okay; they'll be okay. Bernadetta knows how to handle a battle, knows how to draw the eye where she wants it because she had to learn that to know how to turn an enemy towards Ferdinand and all his plate and away from her and the deadly precision of her arrows. She and Dimitri aren't foolish travelers who took a wrong turn out of Fraldarius and decided to keep going, they're key figures in _two_ recent wars for the fate of Fódlan. Bernadetta makes it to the horses, resists the urge to turn around and see if the beasts have moved, and retrieves their lances, her bow, and a quiver as silently as she can. Only then does she look behind her to see the two smaller beasts advancing on Dimitri, and makes a quick, hopefully smart, decision - she undoes the straps so the packs fall off Bear's back, mounts him as quietly as she can, and charges. The noise startles the two smaller beasts, and pulls Dimitri's attention to her so she can toss him his lance on the way past. She tosses her own as well - out of practice and not dressed for battle, she has nowhere to put it while she uses her bow, and if she ends up hurt so badly she can't get back to the blanket the lance won't do her any good anyway. Slower than she'd like, Bernie nocks an arrow and lets it fly, only to lodge mostly harmlessly in the beast's thick hide. 

Dimitri roars so loud they may be able to hear it clear in Fhirdiad, and one of the beasts answers in kind; Bernadetta takes aim again and pelts the smaller beasts with arrows, drawing their attention so Dimitri only has to fight one. One more errant shot and Bernadetta shakes her head, focuses, lets the power of Bear beneath her, the stink of beast in the air, the ringing of Dimitri's lance against the largest beast's hide bring her back to when this was all she knew. The next arrow flies true, striking a soft underbelly and earning her a cry of pain as her prize. The beasts charge, as slow and clumsy as any she's faced before and no better suited to the heat than she and Dimitri are, but not as worn from a full day of travel either. Another strike to the neck and the injured beast staggers, shakes its head, momentarily stunned. Bernadetta urges Bear on a little faster, a little harder, silently promising him all the treats he can handle, and wishes she had Hubert here to tell her where to focus her fire. Leaving one beast unharmed and free to come at her with all its might seems unwise, but so does injuring both and killing neither so she's open to attacks on two fronts. 

The as-yet unharmed beast steps between her and its companion and makes the decision for her, earning itself an arrow to the eye for its trouble. It rears in pain, kicking up a flurry of loose rock and dust; Bernadetta gets her arm up to protect her face but takes a solid hit to the leg, a heavy, bruising thunk of pain, and nearly laughs as it flows through her, sharp and intense and clarifying. Her next two arrows hit the beast in the throat, one after the other with barely a breath in between, and it, too, is stunned. She circles back, less effective at a distance than some of her fellow archers, to focus her attention on the first one she struck, but it's faster than she realizes and swipes at her with massive, poisoned claws. Bernie dodges the worst of it but it still catches her leg, opening a hot stripe down her calf that stings even through the numbness of her battle haze. All her vulneraries are in the pack she dropped, and there aren't that many.

Bernadetta grits her teeth and fires again, pushing herself to move faster, faster, until she’s struck with the wild, bolt-of-lightning feeling of her crest activating; four arrows strike one right after the other to make the beast regret hurting her. An unholy cry shakes her to her bones and before she can think better of it she glances towards it, taking her attention away from her foes - it's Dimitri, drenched in thick, viscous demonic blood so she can't tell from here if it's a battle cry or a roar of pain. The second beast she's fighting charges at her and takes a swipe, which she narrowly dodges and curses herself for letting it get so close. The best thing she can do for Dimitri now is keep his battle to one-on-one, not fall because she's distracted and let the beasts attack him all at once. Two more arrows; it gets easier each time. Demonic beasts' thick hides tend to peel away from open wounds, leaving weak spots everywhere she's struck already, giving her plenty of little targets to aim for. Bear is sweating and breathing hard, pushed to his limit in the heat, and she'll need to take him out of the fight soon. Luckily - for him, and the beasts perhaps, not so much for her - she's nearly out of arrows, so she can finish off the quiver, circle him back to retrieve her lance, and leave him in relative safety. An arrow, an arrow, a dodge, her injured leg on fire from the long, vicious cut and the poison beginning to take hold. She might not be able to stand well enough to wield the lance but she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it. There are two more horses, if nothing else, and one of them tested in battle.

The more injured of the two beasts rears back, roaring and spitting poison into the air, and Bernadetta takes her chance. Another bolt of lightning to the core of her, another four arrows in rapid succession to the beast's sensitive belly and instead of landing steadily back on all fours it collapses, kicking up a cloud of fine black dust and a spray of volcanic rock as it hits the ground. The second beast screeches and lashes out with its tail; it misses Bernie, but she dodges directly into some of the dead beast's poison spit and Bear rears wildly as it burns his leg. Two arrows left and she fires them a little wildly, not looking to see if they hit or how well before hunching down and urging Bear to circle around once more, back towards the blanket where her lance rests. As he always does, Bear has served her beautifully, and she won't risk further harm when he still has so much farther to take her. Bernie drops her bow and scrambles off his back, injured leg nearly buckling when she hits the ground but not entirely - she puts her weight on it as much as she can hurrying to her lance, testing it, and it's far from ideal but it will hold. 

Every instinct in her body screams at her not to, but Bernadetta raises her lance and charges back towards the second beast, closing the distance between them. Dimitri and the largest beast are still locked in violent combat and she's worried if he's injured and she draws the second beast too close they'll focus on him, or the two beasts might find some way to work together. That, and she's _angry_ , furious at herself for failing to consider the risk, at Linhardt for never suggesting the slow recovery might have made Ailell livable, at the beasts for interrupting their rest, and it's best to take advantage of that rage by throwing herself wholesale into the rest of the fight, not standing back and letting it fade. 

Her first strike is true and the lance digs so deep she nearly loses it when the beast bucks, which leaves her off-balance when it swipes and she takes another long, nasty scratch down the underside of her arm. She's so far gone she barely feels it, though it's a little harder to grip her lance and it will only get worse as blood drips down to mix with sweat, and she just strikes again, aiming for the same place, this time screaming out her fury and twisting the lance as she pushes before wrenching it back out and bringing with it a spray of the beast's hot, dark blood. This time she has the presence of mind to stagger backwards and avoid its claws, but it doesn't swipe her again. Instead it turns and swings its massive, heavy tail at her. The tip catches her under the arm and lifts her clear off the ground, raising her dizzyingly high until with a hideous pop her shoulder pulls loose from its socket and she falls. 

Bernadetta can't breathe. She tries, she tries so hard it hurts her chest and her throat but no breath comes, the wind knocked so thoroughly out of her she's going to suffocate here in the middle of Ailell and if Dimitri falls too no one will ever know what happened to them, not until Linhardt determines the valley is fit for living again and the first settlers find their miserable skeletons here. She tries to move, to sit up or roll onto her front or get up on her knees or do _anything_ , but her arm is useless and she can't put her weight on it and she's too panicked to remember she has two of them and could try moving another way. She turns her head, still gasping for breath that won't come, to see the beast bearing down on her, remaining eye flashing - and then a blur with a lance charging into it so hard it bowls the beast over. The first sweet lungful of air comes as Dimitri roars, thrusting his lance down into the beast's soft belly again and again and again, until there is no more blood coming, until the beast has stopped moving, until Bernadetta weakly croaks his name.

Dimitri stalks over to her and for a moment she regrets getting his attention - he is wild, bared teeth and bright eye blazing in his face otherwise covered in beast blood, chest heaving with breath, chunks of flesh stuck to the end of his lance, torn from the beast's body simply by virtue of his strength. The stories she's heard, the fear he inspires, Felix's warning to be careful - in an instant she understands.

"Bags," she says, her voice so weak she can barely hear it herself, her head spinning so she can't figure out any more words. He tilts his head, eye blank as if he doesn't understand her, and when she tries to say it again she coughs. Bernadetta needs to get up, get to their things, get herself a vulnerary and clear her head so she can see what he needs to come back down from the battle high. She tries, again, to sit up, remembering this time she has a good arm she can lean on, but once she makes it up to her elbow she tries to push off with the bad arm and cries out, collapsing again. 

Dimitri grunts and stalks towards her, coming to kneel in the dust beside her and look her over. His eye passes over the obvious injuries, the bruise and slash on her leg, the long gash on her arm, the little nicks and cuts from bits of flying rock, and his brow furrows when he sees her shoulder, the way her arm lies limp and useless at her side. He takes her forearm with a surprisingly gentle grip, considering his strength and the state of him, and - oh, the pop of her shoulder leaving coming loose was perhaps the worst pain she'd ever felt but this is, if not worse, just as bad, the sudden wrench of it moving back into place and her entire arm burning in protest. She cries out, hot tears building at the corners of her eyes, and Dimitri makes soft, shushing noises, patting her clumsily and waiting until the pain passes and her breathing slows to hoist her into his lap as if she weighs nothing. Bernie yelps in surprise, legs parting to accommodate his waist, and he shushes her again, pats her hair, trying to - to calm her, as if she's the one who needs calming. 

Bernadetta is on fire, exhausted and in pain and buzzing with the heat of battle from the top of her head to the tips of her fingers and toes, so keyed up and ready every move Dimitri makes, the restless shift of his hips and the sweep of his arm as he pats her down, checking for further injuries, feels big, and important, and she looks at his face again to find him still wild with it himself. Bernie only has a moment to register how familiar the fire in his eyes looks - like she feels, like the same fire that roars hot in her gut at their triumph - before he kisses her, so rough and wild and with so much teeth she's not sure she can properly call it a kiss. She gasps, and he pulls her closer, the heat of him and the slick of the beast's blood through her thin dress making her breath catch, her head spin. He rocks his hips, thrusting up against her, and makes a low, distressed sort of noise, frustrated by something. He paws at her front with his free hand, the one holding her in his lap tightening on her hip, and tugs at her dress, bites at her lips, pushes the hardness of himself against her through their clothes and whines. Bernadetta's bad arm burns so she loops it around the back of his neck and reaches down with the other, pushing his hand aside so she can pull her skirt up and out of his way.

"Oh!" she yelps, when Dimitri yanks at her shorts, pulling them tight against her cunt before they tear in his strong grip and he can get them out of the way. She's - of course she's wet, she's always - after a battle, she - he groans as if that's all the relief he was after and bounces her in his lap a little, clothed cock bumping clumsily against her, and this time she's the one who growls in frustration, pulling at his waistband with her good hand. Bernie's not as strong as he is but she doesn't need to be, just needs to get the laces loose enough for his cock to spring free, hard and and wet at the tip, dark red with need. At this angle she can't get a good look at it, especially not when he groans and thrusts up again, sliding across her entrance, grunting and trying again until oh, oh, he pushes inside.

Dimitri is _huge_ , stretching her open like she's never been stretched before, so it nearly, nearly hurts - she's still buzzing from the fight, too, all the pain of her injuries numbed in the battle haze, so he must - oh, but it doesn't matter. He's fucking her here, now, like this, and it only hurts enough to make it absolutely sing in her veins, the heat and the stretch and the pressure of him inside her, of her body molding itself around him, the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his thrusting. He bites at her lips, her cheeks, her neck, anything he can reach as he fucks her, gasping and groaning as she clenches up around him. It might only be good because she's out of her head after nearly dying but that's okay, it's still good, it's nothing she expected but exactly what she needs right now. She bounces wildly in his lap, rocked by the force of his thrusts and his grip on her hip, and she digs her nails into his shoulder trying to keep steady. He howls when she does, wild and pained, and Bernadetta reaches a little farther down his back to find his shirt cut nearly in half and a massive gash underneath, slick with blood and hot with poison.

Bernadetta isn't much good at magic but back at Garreg Mach Manuela insisted all her students learn to heal, and she reaches for the memory now, for the way it felt when she finally got it right, something inside of her opening up and flowing outwards. Dimitri's cock is so big and so deep there can't possibly be any room left inside her for the little magic she's ever had but she grits her teeth, and pushes, and when whatever locked door her magic lives behind bursts open it feels almost as good as the hot thrust of him inside her. Dimitri groans, low and rough and ragged, as the skin of his back pulls back together, as the poison is burned from his blood, and he holds her tighter, fucks her harder in return. Bernadetta is wrung out, exhausted, nothing left of her but the hot rush of pleasure every time he pushes back in and the pounding of her pulse in her head, her heart, her cunt. Dimitri surges forward and once again she is on her back on the dusty ground, sharp rocks cutting her through her dress as he pushes in deeper, harder, pounding all his leftover fury into her body.

There's no rhythm, no steady build of two bodies working together to reach a peak, but she can feel when he gets close by the way his grip tightens, his thrusts push faster, deeper, don't pull out as far, and she drops her good hand down between her legs to rub at her clit, get herself off with him. It doesn't take much, high as she is, good as she feels, and she throws her head back and cries out as it shoots through her, as quick and devastating a bolt of lightning as when her crest activates. Dimitri bites her neck when she comes and it hurts, it's too hard, but it's perfect, too, a sweet sharp counterpoint to the pulse of him emptying inside her, pushing so deep she half-expects to feel him spending in her throat.

Dimitri buries his face in her neck and breathes in harsh, ragged sobs, still restlessly shifting his hips as he comes down. Bernie pats at his back and shoulders, hands clumsy with exhaustion, and mimics the noises he made earlier, the soft shushing sounds he tried to comfort her with. She has to - she shouldn't have healed him, injured as she is, tired as she is, and if she doesn't get a vulnerary soon she's in danger of passing out, but Dimitri is huge and heavy and immovable and...she doesn't _want_ to move him, if she's honest. Her blood is still singing from the way he fucked her and as hot as it is, as sweaty and sticky and gross as they both are, it feels nice to touch, to be touched, this weird imitation of a cuddle they're doing. 

Slowly, slowly he catches his breath, and she catches hers, and they both whine when his soft cock slips from her cunt and leaves her empty. He isn't gentle when he lets go, just drops her hips to the ground, and she can't imagine the rocks feel any better against her bare ass than her clothed back but she barely feels anything anymore. Bernadetta sits up and watches Dimitri crawl away, straight into the tent to collapse on his bedroll, and within moments his breath has gone slow and steady and even - he's asleep. She's never actually seen him sleep before, he always goes to bed later than she does and rises earlier.

Okay, then. That's - okay, that's good. Bernadetta pushes to her feet, her bad leg nearly buckling under her but once again it holds, though she won't count on that much longer. She staggers to her pack and finds the first aid supplies tucked neatly where she first packed them; they haven't needed any of it, not even the spare clean towels or small bandages. She drinks down one vulnerary in a few big gulps, and the initial rush of cool healing energy feels incredible but the aftermath is just awful. The poison burning out of her system hurts, her wounds knitting back together itch; the potion clears her head and pushes away the numbing haze that lets her keep pushing forward no matter how injured she is. Her cunt is sore, her mouth tastes like bad breath and monster blood, her hips are bruised, and all her exhaustion hits her at once, so hard it brings tears to her eyes. She lets herself cry for a moment or two, always feels better to let it out than to try and stop it, but when the crying turns to sobbing turns to hiccups turns to gagging she quickly downs a second vulnerary and that one does the trick. No more itching, aching, burning, no more pain, and no more exhaustion, either, though she knows well enough that boost will be temporary and she'd better be lying down when it wears off.

First there are the horses to see to, the pack horse who bolted a little ways away and needs to be gentled back towards the tent with her soft words and gentle touch and a not-too-terribly wilted carrot from their dwindling supply of treats. A carrot for Bear, too, for his bravery, and a fresh skin of water to hopefully help him cool down, and Bernadetta doesn't have the time to give him the brushing and rubdown he needs but she at least brushes out the fur around his face and neck so he isn't too uncomfortable to rest. Victory gets the last carrot so she doesn't feel left out, and because she was so brave to stay right where she was in case they needed her - she's one of Ferdinand's, and Bernadetta will have to remember to mention that when she writes him next. 

It's not the best idea to camp so close to the dead bodies of the beasts, Bernadetta's sure; if there are other predators around, they might be drawn to the carcasses. She certainly can't move them on her own, though, and even if she wanted to wake Dimitri up - even if she could, he's so deeply asleep he might as well be unconscious - moving the largest one any reasonable distance would be a big ask even for him. She'll have to hope that these being the only creatures they've seen in the valley means they're the only ones who live here, or that the prospect of running into whatever killed them will scare everything else away. There's nothing she can do about it, anyway, and for maybe the first time in Bernadetta's life she's too tired to really worry. Her eyelids are getting heavy, the energizing effect of the vulnerary beginning to fade, and before she falls over and sleeps at the horses' feet she stumbles to the tent.

-

It's still dark when Bernadetta wakes up, and though the air is never exactly cool in Ailell, the barest hint of a breeze stirs the dust and provides a little relief, though it would be nicer if it didn't stink of dead demonic beast. Bernadetta moves slowly at first, testing her muscles for soreness, ensuring there are no wounds the vulneraries couldn't handle she might reopen, hesitant to put weight on the arm she dislocated. She seems to be mostly fine, just pleasantly sore in a few places; if not for the blood on her dress and the acrid smell in the air she might think the whole fight was a dream and the only thing that really happened was what came next. 

Dimitri's voice filters in from outside, mingling with the horses whickering so she can't make out any of his words. If he's using words at all, and that thought has her hurrying up and out of the tent - if he's still in the state he was when they fell asleep, he might be scaring them. All is well, though; Dimitri is brushing Bear and talking to him quietly about what a handsome boy he is, and how much the venom burn on his leg must hurt. There's a lightness to his voice she recognizes from Fhirdiad that seems entirely out of place here where he's been so miserable, so soon after he was entirely beyond words, but it's far better than the alternative. He's still wearing his blood-ruined pants, but his shirt is nowhere to be seen, and that's probably also for the better. 

"Good morning," Bernadetta says, though the moon is still high in the sky and there are hours to daylight; her voice comes out croaky and hoarse, scraping against her dry throat. Dimitri turns his head and smiles one of his Fhirdiad smiles at her, soft and warm and relaxed. Perhaps this is the dream, and the real Bernadetta is still sound asleep.

"Are you alright?" he asks. "I had no need of the last vulnerary, if you would like it."

Bernie doesn't entirely believe him, doesn't have that kind of faith in her own healing ability, but he looks healthy enough. He's steady on his feet, not bleeding anywhere she can see, in good enough spirits to chat with the horses and smile at her. It doesn't make a difference, anyway - she's no longer injured, just nursing the kind of sore muscles vulneraries don't do much for.

"I'm alright," she says, "but thank you. And I believe he thanks you, as well."

"He was in quite a state when I woke up," Dimitri says.

"Poor thing," Bernadetta says, and walks over to press a kiss to his nose, stroke his neck a little. "I could barely stand up."

"I imagine so," Dimitri says, looking over at the pile of dead beasts. "I'm sure he knows you did your best.

Bernadetta pets Bear a few more times, silently apologizing, then goes to her bag and gets the last vulnerary. She pours half of it into Bear's water and carefully re-corks it; if nothing came upon them in the night, they likely won't run into any danger they can't handle on their way out of Ailell, but she still doesn't want to be caught with nothing. He fidgets as his leg heals, unaccustomed to way vulneraries spread like ice through the veins and the itch of something healing unnaturally fast, and Bernadetta kisses his nose again so he knows he's alright. Dimitri is studying her when she looks up, his blue eye sharp and intense, and he colors a little when he notices her looking.

"I am certain I owe you an apology," he says. "But I'm afraid it won't be an adequate one."

"Oh, there's no need - "

"Please," Dimitri says, raising a hand to cut her off. "It's been some time since I lost control like that, and I know - I've been told I am quite frightening. I hope I was not too much for you."

The mild ache between Bernadetta's legs throbs with the memory - too much? A little, maybe, but certainly not in a bad way.

"I, um, I liked it," she says, cheeks flushing. Dimitri's brow furrows in confusion, and Bernadetta wants to shrink under the scrutiny, but - well, there's no use lying about it. She may not have thought about it, or seen it coming, and if she had she might have planned something very different, but he's not her first tryst to begin on a battlefield, certainly not the only man she's kissed through a haze of adrenaline and tasted someone else's blood. He tilts his head, and then his brow smooths out and he smiles politely at her.

"Of course," he says. "I suppose anyone would, outnumbered like that. I'll admit I don't have much memory of what happens when I'm in that state, I can only hope I did nothing to hurt you. And I must thank you for making sure I got to the tent; I never know how true Felix's stories are, but according to him I've once or twice simply fallen next to my defeated foe and slept there."

"He exaggerates," Bernie says, the only thing she can think to say because the rest is a little too much to handle right now. 

"He does." Dimitri steps back for a moment and looks Bear over, then nods and pats his rump approvingly. "There you are, good as new."

"I'm sure he appreciates it," Bernadetta says. "Do you - is it alright if I ask what you _do_ remember?"

Dimitri pauses in the middle of packing away the curry comb; she can't see his face but she can tell from the way he tenses just a little he's likely frowning. Bernie knows better than this, knows better than to push when someone's mind has chosen to protect them from something; Emile would be so disappointed in her.

"You, tearing away on that horse as if you were struck by lightning," he says. "You're quite fast! And it was - I owe you thanks, for drawing the beasts away. Not many people would volunteer to outnumber themselves like that. I lost track of you almost immediately, then I struck the beast a time or two before it managed to injure me. I'm afraid that's all, until I woke up uninjured and well-rested; pain tends to do that to me." 

"Of course," Bernadetta says. "I'm sorry to push. You - it was an impressive display."

When Dimitri turns to face her he's smiling again, though it's much closer to the artificial one she remembers from the few occasions she saw him around Enbarr than the one she's beginning to get used to.

"If you're still up for traveling by night," he says, "I can pack the tent up if you'll see to the horses."

Bernadetta can't think of a single downside to leaving Ailell as quickly as possible, so she nods, and much to the horses' dismay begins packing away the feed bags and water. Soon enough they are packed and mounted and on their way, and Bernadetta clenches her jaw against the soreness of her hips; it’s going to be a long night.

-

The water in Daphnel must be the sweetest and most refreshing in all of Fódlan, though Bernadetta might be biased. Her stomach is so full of river water she hasn't eaten since they made camp hours ago, and her fingers are all wrinkled up from how long she's been floating. The dress she wore in Ailell is ruined, but at least she's finally scrubbed her skin clean of all the blood, sweat, and...dirt. The water is easy on her hips, sore enough before nearly a full day's ride, cool and soothing between her legs, and if she weren't afraid of drowning she might try to sleep here.

Dimitri sits on the bank, having finished his washing up and returned to dry land long ago. There's something different about him, a lightness to the way he carries himself, a nearly imperceptible upturn to his usual placid expression, an alert brightness in his eye. He was almost cheerful on the ride out of Ailell, breaking his initial moody silence to ask about her tactics against the beasts, or whether her plant samples survived dumping her pack on the ground, or what they should say if they were to come across any other travelers in their ruined clothes. He tends the fire, sitting close as if he hasn't had quite enough heat for a while, and Bernadetta takes advantage of his distraction to study him. His hair dried soft and loose around his face, his shoulders loose and relaxed, his leather eye patch from Edelgard back in place. With little risk of being seen, he's dressed more finely than when they traveled through Faerghus, and though he doesn't exactly look like a king - fallen or otherwise - he'd have trouble passing for anything but a noble.

"I should go hunting soon, if we want fresh meat for dinner," Dimitri says, turning to look at her. "I would prefer not to leave you defenseless in the water."

"I was thinking about sleeping in here, honestly," she says, but she swims towards the bank because it would be nice, actually, to not have another meal of their supply of dried meats and fruit. She doubts the few vegetables they bought from that last innkeeper in Galatea are worth cooking after all that time in the heat of Ailell, but that's alright. Dimitri averts his eyes as she climbs over the rocks and onto dry land; she's still wearing her ruined dress, since she just went right in the river wearing it, and though she doesn't think it should be see-through from the water it's certainly clinging to her more than it ever has before. "Just give me a moment."

He nods, and Bernadetta ducks behind a few trees with a bundle of clothes to change even though it would probably be smarter to give herself a little time to dry off. It's warm and sunny enough it won't take long, her traveling clothes lightweight and fairly quick to dry, and she'd like Dimitri to get his hunting done before the sun starts to set. The odds of there being some lurking monsters in the forests of Daphnel he can't handle at least long enough to run back and get her help are low, but - well. She's going to worry for a while, and however over the top her anxiety usually is she's sure no one would blame her.

"I'll stay close," Dimitri says, when she comes back out fully dressed. "If anything should happen, I can get back quickly."

At least she isn't the only one worrying.

"I know," she says. "And I'll keep my bow on hand, if you need me."

Dimitri nods, and there's something almost comforting about how familiar the anxiety that wraps Bernadetta's stomach in its cold, iron grip is as she watches him disappear into the trees. She should - there's no reason he should hunt alone, especially not when she's the one with the bow, when anything could happen, when - Bernadetta shakes her head and sits by the fire. Dimitri hunts because he needs it, she stays here because she doesn't. They're less than half a day's ride from the county seat, and it may not be a big city but it's still real civilization, the kind monsters don't really lurk at the edges of anymore. Bernie knows telling herself that kind of thing never works, though, so she straps on her quiver, slings her bow over her shoulder, and begins walking in circles around their camp to find something they can eat with their dinner. It's nice she has Dimitri to double-check things for her, since normally she'd be too worried the clutch of mushrooms she finds in an old stump aren't as similar to the ones Dedue showed her in the Fhirdiad kitchens as she thinks, but if she's wrong they won't get sick unless he's wrong also. So she collects a few handfuls of mushrooms, and some leafy greens, holding them all in her skirt so she has a hand free for some interesting flowers she sees just a little ways through the trees.

"Bernadetta? Bernadetta!"

"I'm here," she says, pushing down her instinct to be annoyed at the worry in his voice; this isn't Dimitri thinking she's too fragile or afraid to go wandering on her own, this is Dimitri being as anxious as she is about being separated for too long. People don't really treat her like that anymore, not the ones who've seen her grow out of her terrified-of-everything phase, but there's a part of her that still expects it. Bernadetta makes more noise than she needs to coming back to the campfire, so he knows exactly where she's coming from, and smiles a little to see him focusing much harder than he needs to on cleaning the rabbits he caught as if trying to keep from staring at the woods until she emerges. He nods at the mushrooms and the greens, and soon enough they have a hearty little dinner ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Bernadetta are both adrenaline-drunk when they have sex, which is not normally a thing I would warn for but Dimitri is very much not in his right mind in a way that's obvious to Bernadetta. Because it's her POV we know she wants it more than she's afraid in his wild state he'll hurt her; the same is true of Dimitri, that he would want this even if he were fully cognizant, but that isn't obvious in the text.


	4. Monkshood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Ailell behind them, Bernadetta and Dimitri continue on as if nothing has changed, though that is far more difficult for Bernadetta than she's ready to admit.

"And three - no, five of the onions, please," Bernadetta says, and passes over a handful of gold coins in exchange for the heavy bag of vegetables. She hoists it over her shoulder, balancing out the sizable bag of nuts and smoked meat from the last stall, and glances around the market to see if there's anything else she wants. There's a vendor selling bouquets of fresh flowers off to the side, which Bernadetta's never been very good at resisting, but it's not as if she has a vase she can keep them in and she's more interested in what grows wild than what a talented gardener might cultivate. To one side, though, there's someone selling bundles of herbs in greens so bright they look a little out of place this late in the summer, and she trudges over to see what might serve them well on the road. 

Finally satisfied, Bernadetta joins Dimitri at one of the small tables near the hot food stalls and raises her eyebrow a little at the number of empty dishes. She must not be feeding him enough - but of course that's why they're here. Bernie didn't plan well enough for how the heat of Ailell would affect their food supply, a mistake she won't make again. She sets her bags down and pulls out the map and some graphite for marking it; funny, that it was only a few days ago she last sat across the table from Dimitri, ready to plot a course, and yet it feels like a thousand years have passed for all that’s changed.

"We can follow the coast for a while," she says. "Well, sort of. Follow it from several miles inland, where things actually grow. And we'll have to turn more inland before Kupala, I think, they don't like visitors, but Ferdinand asked me to visit Fódlan's Locket for him so we’ll have to veer back out a little to catch the road into the mountains."

"Fhirdiad for me," Dimitri says, ticking off on his fingers and laughing a little. "Ailell for Linhardt, was it? Fódlan's Locket for Ferdinand. Do you ever deny a favor asked of you?"

"I - sometimes! Just not when it's easy enough for me and would be harder for them. Or if I owe them, like Linhardt found me several rare books on - I'm quite happy with how my trip was planned, even...considering."

"No, of course, I meant no offense. I only - I am much the same way. I have been told on several occasions that, for example, a request to go into the Valley of Torment is well beyond what most would consider a simple favor, but I suppose it has never gotten through. I was not laughing _at_ you, I assure you."

"Oh," Bernadetta says. "I - okay. I’m not used to - um, there's - I guess they're working on turning the Locket into a marketplace, in anticipation of the border opening more freely, and Ferdinand can't find the time to come out and see so he asked if I would go and tell him about it."

"He's the Prime Minister."

"Right," Bernie says. "He can't just take a few days to go to the Locket."

"No," Dimitri says. "I mean the border - and relations with those who share it - should be his priority. They are stretching themselves far too thin; it's absurd that Edelgard's cabinet sits mostly empty so that she and Ferdinand and Hubert must cover everything and none of them can focus on their actual responsibilities."

"She didn't - everyone had plans for after the war," Bernadetta says, the need to defend her friends winning out over the worry she shouldn't share things confessed to her too late at night after too long a day, Edelgard's shoulders slumped and eyes dark with exhaustion. "And she'd already asked us all to go to war for her, and then keep going to take down Those Who Slither In The Dark, so she didn't want to - or think she could, I don't know - ask everyone to put those plans on hold even longer to serve. Appointments from among the nobility might bring into question her commitment to changing things, and finding candidates among people she doesn't know would just add more work."

"I think perhaps those who question her commitment could look back on the war and answer for themselves," Dimitri says, with a small smile. "But of course she would worry about that. It is - there are certainly more solutions open to her than simply taking on such an inhuman quantity of work, but I suppose if anyone is stubborn enough to keep it all from falling apart by sheer force of will, it is Edelgard."

"She's the only person I know more stubborn than Hubert," Bernadetta says. "And he's the only one more stubborn than Ferdinand."

"It is good they have you, then," Dimitri says, so soft and earnest it makes Bernadetta's cheeks heat up. "Someone to remind them they are human. Or at least to do them favors when they must admit that to themselves."

"I - um. I guess, I - anyway, the mountains should be nice. And I don't know much about Almyra, so an Almyran market should be fun. And then we can head straight back down to Gloucester, where I'd like to spend at least a few days, and then along the Airmid to - "

"I see you've circled Gloucester quite emphatically," Dimitri says, pointing to the map. "What are you so excited about there?"

"Roses," Bernadetta says, and waits a moment for him to roll his eyes, but he just nods and returns to his meal. "I - when Lorenz and his mother moved to Almyra, they donated their home to the County. The council he appointed is using the house itself as a central working space, and they've opened the rose garden to the public. I - it's a little silly, but I've wanted to see it for so long."

"The whole purpose of the journey is to look at plants," Dimitri says. "I am not sure I understand why looking at any specific plant would be sillier than any other."

"Well, my whole project was supposed to be about wild plants," Bernadetta says, though it's not entirely accurate. There is no real project, just a vague sense that she wants to see all the interesting things that grow in the world and maybe write about them. She had plans, once, for a series of short stories inspired by each plant in Hubert's poison garden, though even if she ever gets around to that it's not something she can do for every plant in Fódlan and beyond. There are already field guides for most regions in Fódlan; they're of varying quality and could certainly stand to be updated, but that's more suited to someone like Dedue, interested in them beyond their appearances. Bernie just feels better when she talks about the 'project' as if it's anything more than a whim or an excuse to be restless, since she's dragged Dimitri into it.

"Of course," Dimitri says, pleasantly. "I might complain if you try to bring me somewhere as warm as Ailell again, but other than that I am at your mercy."

"Gloucester's quite mild, I believe," Bernadetta says, which isn't exactly the point but she's apologized for Ailell so much since they left she thinks it's beginning to annoy Dimitri. Felix would hate to hear it but there are so many ways he and Dimitri are alike, so many things she learned about dealing with Felix that help her now with Dimitri, and Felix would be similarly driven mad by the implication she could force him into doing anything, that he ever makes choices without fully considering the consequences. Dimitri might not have considered the last few wild demonic beasts in Fódlan would take refuge in the last place humans are likely to go and thought they would make a fun challenge like Felix might have, but she didn't drag him anywhere against his will. Didn't do _anything_ against his will, whatever he remembers or doesn't, regrets or doesn't. 

-

Camping is easy; it's been easy since they first set out, even when Bernadetta was worried how well she'd handle having a near stranger so close all the time. Routines settle her, keep the anxiety at bay, and the number of small routines they go through to ensure everything is set up properly, they have food and water, the horses are cared for, and they won't be set upon in their sleep ease Bernadetta's mind the same way all the labor of carrying those routines out seems to settle Dimitri. Whatever sets Bernadetta's head spinning as the day wears on - and there are so many, many things, most of which might be no problem one day and a major crisis the next - fades away into the night as she plans their dinner, checks her clothes for tears or stains, collects water from the river. By the time they've finished eating, and a pot of tea steeps in the coals at the edge of the fire, Dimitri is calmed from the hunt and the chopping of firewood, and Bernadetta is calmed from all her little tasks, and they can sit in companionable silence.

Tonight, rather than merely staring into the fire as if it's a portal to somewhere far away and long ago, Dimitri is mending a pair of breeches, a task he is taking as slowly and seriously as he might, in another life, have taken the writing of a treaty. Bernadetta unwinds the leather ties from her pressing boards and checks to see which flowers have dried, moving them to the little book she stores them in to make room for the day's collection. Northern Leicester boasts forests with dense underbrush hiding a wealth of interesting herbs and flowers, and she has plenty of pretty and unusual things to preserve and sketch and compare to her field guides over the next few days. First she moves the flowers she took from Fhirdiad, the bulkiest ones only barely dry, out of the way, tucking the Blaiddyd Rose peony and one of the fiery lilies that reminds her of Sylvain - though doesn't grow in Gautier, apparently - between pages in the thick book of poetry she keeps for this. The peony has faded some, so rather than Dimitri's hair when he is freshly washed and making a good impression on the friends who worry about him it resembles his hair on the fifth or sixth day without a decently-sized body of water to bathe in. Which, hm.

Careful not to knock anything onto the forest floor where she might lose it, Bernadetta twists in her seat and reaches for her pack, barely managing to close her fingers around the little pouch with her sketchbook and pencils in it. Dimitri is so focused on his sewing he doesn't seem to notice the way she looks at him as she sketches, working the slump of his shoulders and the limp greasiness of his hair when he was so miserable in Ailell from memory and the firm set of his jaw and the flutter of his eyelashes from life. She adds peonies at his feet much the same way, the slumping, wilted ones modeled on the dried bloom in front of her and the live ones desperately reaching for the sun just as they did in Dedue's garden. Dimitri stands among them, caught halfway between blooming and wilting, and Bernadetta glances at him once more before putting the sketchbook away to find him watching her.

"I apologize," he says, when she squeaks, a reflex she just can't get rid of no matter how brave she gets. "You look different when you work."

"Do I?"

Dimitri nods. "It is - I don't mean to stare. I've never had much talent for making things, or much use, I suppose, but it seems every time I look at you there's some new tool in your hands, some new creation happening right in front of me."

"You sew now," Bernie says, but she's fairly sure it isn't quite the same. There was so much she needed to learn as a young girl to be a good wife, so many things a husband was going to expect from her, and once her father tired of giving her new things to learn there was always a need to escape, to distract herself, or to look like she was practicing the skills he approved of. She can't sit still now without something to do, not after so much forced stillness when she misbehaved, and she's been told before in ways both kind and cruel how distracting it can be. "You could learn anything else you wanted, too. I could teach you to draw, if you'd like, or paint."

She would have to tear the drawings of Dimitri from her sketchbook, first, and store the painting she did of him in Fhirdiad somewhere separate from her paints, lest he think she spends all her time watching him like some of Dorothea's most obnoxious admirers, but it might be worth it anyway. The way he smiled at her, bright and eager, when he realized he'd properly mended his shirt that first time - it's nice to make someone else feel like that, even if it had little to do with her.

"Perhaps," he says, and then holds his mended breeches up. "How did I do?"

In the firelight she can barely see the mended spot, just a little bit of shadow where it puckers, the texture of the stitches catching the light a little differently than the rest. 

"Oh, it looks good!" she says, and his answering smile isn't quite as intense as the one she was just remembering so fondly but it still makes her fingers twitch around her pencil, wanting to commit it to the page for those times he goes quiet and vacant and sad. Apparently satisfied, he sets his breeches aside and turns his attention to the fire, as usual, and Bernadetta puts her drawing away so she can finish arranging her flowers and get some sleep.

-

Bernie isn't stupid, nor is she naive. She's had more romance in her life than the girl who was going to quietly marry someone horrid and quietly live out the rest of her miserable, lonely life ever expected, and though that isn't a very high bar it's still enough for her to recognize something when she sees it. It's easy enough to pretend Dimitri only captivates her so because he's simply that captivating; that she finds herself watching him so frequently simply because he's so tall and broad it's hard to look at anything else without at least catching sight of him; that she hangs on his every mood and works so to make him happy simply because his unhappiness consumes him so thoroughly and she knows what that's like. When Bernie first decided she would show Sylvain her writing on purpose, that his opinion was one she wanted and cared about, she tried to write a little love story because she thought that might be what he liked, and he laughed at her silly protagonist who didn't realize she was in love and said nobody's that stupid, Bernadetta.

(Some people are, Bernie knows, but _Bernie_ isn't, she knows that, too.)

The northern coast is different from the Adrestian beaches Bernadetta got to visit once or twice in her youth, when her father was still courting an Aegir marriage for her and her mother was actually there to insist she be allowed to come on the trip. The beaches in Aegir were broad and beautiful, gently lapped at by slow waves that little Bernie could chase on stubby legs, covered in sand that made lopsided castles and concealed pretty shells and bits of treasure for an intrepid explorer to find. The beaches here are rocky and treacherous, the waves crashing as if they're furious at the land for being in their way, algae and seaweed clinging to the rocks for dear life and making it easy to slip and twist one's ankle if one isn't paying attention.

Dimitri is paying attention, as carefully as when he mends his clothes, his brow furrowed a bit in concentration. Bernadetta is tucked away on a broad, flat, mostly dry rock, painting a particularly interesting clump of seaweed that spreads across a pile of stones like a hand with twisted, gnarled fingers; at least that's what she's supposed to be doing. In truth, she has mixed her paints and laid down a rough sketch of the most interesting lines, and made no other progress since Dimitri began gingerly walking towards the water. There is a grace in his movements, like when he's riding or fighting and forgets to hold himself stiffly, unsure what to do with his limbs, and his bare feet grip the rocks as if made to do just that. He stares out at the water, wind whipping his hair around his face, until he either sees what he's looking for or gives up on seeing it and turns to walk a little ways, only to repeat the whole process every few steps. It's easy enough to pretend she's just watching because she's worried he'll slip and fall...but nobody's that stupid, Bernadetta.

-

Bernadetta hears Dimitri returning from the hunt because he clearly wants her to, the sudden, awkward snap of a twig as if he brought his foot down in that spot on purpose followed by footfalls heavy enough he might be carrying an entire moose for their dinner. It's not subtle, he's not a terribly good actor, but Bernie prefers it that way, to be honest; she knows to appreciate the effort, the consideration, rather than question how it is he manages to catch _anything_ stomping around like that.

"It seems you've been busy," he says, and Bernadetta tilts her head for a moment, confused, before glancing at the stack of sketches beside her to see it's much larger than she realized. Her neck is a little stiff, and her hand is beginning to cramp, but she doesn't always notice these things while she's actually in the moment working. Come to think of it, it sort of feels like Dimitri only left a minute or two ago, but here he is all finished with his hunt. Whoops.

"I guess so," she says, and laughs a little. "We should move our camp."

"Your tent is a mere ten or fifteen steps from this plant that has you so fascinated," Dimitri says. "Is that not close enough?"

"Oh, no, it's too close, is the problem," she says; she can almost hear the face he must be making, that open-mouthed confusion like she's all of a sudden speaking a different language.

"Are you concerned you won't be able to sleep if it's here to tempt you?" he asks, and comes to crouch beside her. "It isn't even flowering. Though, these leaves are an interesting shape, I can see - "

"Don't," Bernadetta says, and catches his hand with her own to keep him from touching the leaves without protection, "it's poisonous. Very, very poisonous."

"Ah," Dimitri says. "Which is why we should move camp. I - are you alright, sitting so close to it for so long?"

"It's not airborne," she says. "Or it shouldn't be. I guess if I feel sick tomorrow we'll know why. No, I just don't want to prepare or eat food where some of the leaves might have fallen or there might be younger offspring we can't see."

"Of course," Dimitri says. "Are you - that really is quite a lot of drawings."

"Sometimes I just can't stop," Bernadetta says, and laughs a little. "I wanted a few extra to send to Hubert, it doesn't cultivate well so he doesn't have one for his poison garden, and it's an interesting little plant. One of the poisons made from the leaves is, apparently, known as the ‘Kiss Goodnight.' Common among poisoners, at least."

"That's quite a name," Dimitri says.

"Hubert told me if you take a very small amount of an extraction of the leaves daily for several moons, you'll develop an immunity," she says. "Which in a practical sense means you can add it to a bottle of wine, then prove to your victim it's safe by taking a glass for yourself, but it most often shows up in books and operas as being mixed with lipstick and administered with a kiss."

"Hm," Dimitri says. "That seems inefficient."

"According to Hubert, those with an interest in poisons often experiment with inoculating themselves, when it's possible, so I suppose an experienced assassin wouldn't need to first take all those moons to develop the resistance."

"I - no," Dimitri says. "I mean all the effort it takes to get someone to want to kiss you. I am under the impression assassinations are often hasty affairs."

"They - yes, usually. When I had to - when I was working with Emile, the most time it ever took was when I had to observe someone's movements for a few days to find a time they would be alone, or easy to _get_ alone. Then it was just the matter of a well-placed arrow or two, from far enough away I couldn't hear the impact, and on to the next. Poison is interesting to me, because even the fastest ones are slower than a mortal wound, unless it's _very_ poorly placed, and you have to get close enough to actually give it to them. Especially if you're going to kiss them - all that time, all the things you have to learn about them, seeing them with the people in their lives, there's nowhere to, um, hide. They aren't just a name on a list anymore. I think that's - that probably sounds creepy, but it might be...better that way."

"I don't know that I have ever been fully myself while taking a life," Dimitri says. "Perhaps in the early days at the Academy, but even then - if I had to be present and aware, I do not know that I would ever...you are on to something, I think."

The wind picks up and rustles Bernie's hair, her pile of drawings, the deadly leaves; something about the tone of Dimitri's voice, so quiet and low, makes the backs of her eyes prickle with tears, makes something thick and sour build in her throat. She doesn't talk about this, not really. not with anyone but Hubert and he's so good at making it seem cold and distant - items on a to-do list, simple tasks to ready the world for Edelgard's reign, no different than planning her coronation. She shouldn't have - oh, Bernie.

"I'm sorry," she says, so quickly the words sort of tumble over each other in their hurry out of her mouth, but Dimitri's likely heard enough of her apologies by now to know that's just how they go. "That was - I didn't mean - "

"No, no," Dimitri says, still a little quiet, a little distant. "It's alright, I - surely it is not actually possible to develop an immunity to a poison by taking it?"

"Not many of them," Bernie says, pathetically grateful for the path out of the deep hole she dug their conversation into. "And I never know when Hubert's joking, so it might all be nonsense."

"He can be difficult to read," Dimitri says, and when she turns to look at him he quirks his lips up in a passable imitation of a smile, an earnest but not entirely convincing gesture of forgiveness. There's a faraway look in his eye; he won't be much for conversation the rest of the night, and she doubts he'll sleep much, if at all. She'll have to find a way to make it up to him, though her options are limited. Offering to hunt or collect firewood or do his mending would just be taking away things he enjoys, and she already cooks his dinner, keeps their camp tidy, sees to their rations on the road, and plans their routes with his comfort in mind. Still, she can surely find something. Even if that something is simply remembering not to talk about death, or the war, or any of the thousand things that cast that dark shadow over his mood ever again.

-

The road up the mountains of the Throat is rocky and narrow, at least from the north, a difficult and tiring ride even for experienced riders. It certainly doesn't help that the lack of travel means the path is overgrown in many places, the scrubby mountain plants that stubbornly wriggle their roots through the thin soil and cling for dear life taking over any space they can get. They don't make the road that much more challenging, but they're wild and interesting and unfamiliar and Bernie keeps stopping to sketch a leaf or pluck a flower for drying or stare curiously at a few berries and try to draw on her knowledge of the various edible and inedible wild berries of Fódlan to decide whether she should try some. She always decides not to, but...well, they look delicious. And as always, Dimitri is smiling and patient through all of it, every time she only makes it five or six steps before dismounting again, every time she digs in her pack for more sketching paper, every time she begins babbling enthusiastically about the similarities between this one wild shrub and a plant in the Imperial Garden that's supposed to be one of the last remnants of something ancient and nearly extinct. 

"I'm sorry," she says, again, as she mounts Bear. "We're fairly high, I imagine there won't be much new foliage from now on."

"You have said that three or four times so far," Dimitri says, with a huff of a laugh. "It's no trouble. I'm sure the horses are glad for the slow pace. Only - "

"Only?"

"You mentioned you traveled with Felix during the war; having traveled quite a bit with Felix myself, and now you, it's...difficult to imagine the two of you getting along on the road."

"Oh, I drove him out of his mind," she says. "At first, anyway. Garreg Mach was the first time I’d left home in a very long time, so even the traveling we did there - there's so much to see in the world and I hadn't gotten to see _any_ of it and he always wanted to cover the most ground we could, rush even when we weren't going anywhere specific. It was - he tried to be patient. I could tell he was trying."

"There is always a shortcut," Dimitri says, quiet and fond. "Or something we could remove from our packs to lighten the load and shave seconds from our travel time, or once he suggested we put our clothes on still soaking wet after bathing and ride like that, so the wind and sun could dry us as we went."

"He was never _that_ bad," she says. "Just - and he was right of course, to keep reminding me there was a war on, and we didn't know if I was - we eventually figured out Edelgard wasn't going to come for me for deserting, but we didn't _know_ then. I'd see something I'd never seen before and he'd tell me we could stop, but only for a moment, and I'd tell myself eventually the war would end and I would have time to come back someday, and we'd ride through a month later and the whole field would have burned. It was - he took good care of me."

"I'm sure he did," Dimitri says. "That can't have been an easy way to see the world for the first time."

"No." That fear in the beginning, the hiding, the fires and the chaos and the bandits, more bandits all the time as more homes were lost, more food sources claimed or destroyed, more people losing everything they had to lose except their swords. And Felix in all his desperate determination not to grieve for Dimitri, and not to let anything happen to Bernadetta, not to find himself on one side or the other serving an unworthy master, the best and worst traveling companion she could have had all mixed up into one person. "This is better."

"It's funny we ended up traveling together," Dimitri says. "He was the first person I saw 'the world' with, too, though of course only the world within a day or two's ride of Fhirdiad or his estate in Fraldarius. I suppose we have been trained under the same harsh master in the art of exploration."

Bernadetta laughs. "Somehow I think it would just annoy him if we told him that."

"Perhaps more, if - ah, please tell me if this is too personal, but was he your first kiss as well?"

"My - oh," she says. "Uh, yes, he was. The first real one, I suppose, there was - uh. So. Yours too?"

"Well, I'm not sure you would consider it ‘real’," Dimitri says, and laughs; he's in high spirits today, despite the difficulty of the ride. "We were quite young. But it is - I trust you won't laugh if I tell you he was not just my first, but so far only."

Bernadetta does not stop dead in the middle of the road, causing Dimitri to crash into her and the pack horse into him and all their belongings and perhaps their bodies to tumble down the mountain to be split upon the rocks at the bottom, but only because Bear is used to the way she freezes up sometimes and knows to give her a moment before he follows suit. It's enough time for her to recover, to flex her hands on the reins and shift in the saddle and plaster a false smile on her face as if Dimitri can even see her from back there. 

"I - that's - no, of course I won't laugh, only you're so - well, you know. Everyone at school seemed to..."

"So I've been told," Dimitri says. "I was perhaps a bit overly focused on myself back then. There was - I was to take the crown as soon as I graduated, of course, and knowing I would have to be prepared for that did quite a bit to dissuade me from seeking distractions. There was always going to be time for that."

"And then there wasn't," Bernie says. The little flutter of anxiety that runs through her sometimes when she thinks of her - their - her secret from Ailell, of knowing something he doesn't and probably should, settles in the pit of her stomach cold and heavy and rock-solid, and she can only hope he can't hear something wrong in her voice. She needs to - of course she should - oh _Bernie_. "Well, um, it's - when we camp for the night, should we write Felix a letter and inform him we've discovered all we have in common?"

Dimitri laughs, deep and booming and echoing through the mountain path; it does nothing to raise her spirits, to chase away the feeling she's done something awful, but it - it's always good to see him so happy.

-

The mountain air is crisp and clear, cold enough Bernadetta is wrapped in a blanket and sitting close to the fire though summer is just beginning to climb down from its peak; in another week or two they'll be sweltering in its last dying gasp and she'll be yearning for the blanket, the fire, the chill that creeps down the back of her neck when she changes position and lets the air in. Tomorrow they'll reach the Locket; tonight it looms over them, even as high as they are, an eerie silhouette blocking out the stars. She marched on it once, with Edelgard, and though it's hardly the only place she's only seen in the context of battle it just looks so much like it's _there_ to be marched on, that she must be wrong about the purpose of their visit. 

Dimitri, for his part, is still in high spirits. There's no water nearby to wash their dinner dishes so he spent most of the evening wiping them down with a rag as best he could, humming something broken and off-key. Now he's focusing as carefully as ever on mending a torn pair of pants, firelight glinting in the hair that falls in his eyes so it looks made of the same stuff as the stars; Absurd, that someone as beautiful as he is has never - when even _Bernie_ has - but she has to stop thinking that way. Bernie sighs and shakes her head a little and returns to the task at hand, a letter to Edelgard to answer the one that will surely be waiting at the Locket in the morning.

_I hope it's a good sign that none of Hubert's ravens have tracked us down. The trip continues to be good - we had a little trouble in Ailell, but nothing we couldn't handle, and I look forward to extracting several lifetimes' worth of favors from Linhardt._

_When I wrote from Fhirdiad I told you Dimitri and I are getting along fine; the more we travel, the more I think I couldn't have found a better travel companion if I'd searched for years. You probably know that already. He's patient, and kind, and eats everything I cook and asks for seconds even when we haven't restocked recently and all the vegetables are sad and limp and there isn't enough seasoning, and crawls through thorn bushes to pick flowers for me. I look at the map and think the trip is probably more than half over and get a little bit sad, and I've never ever in my whole life been sad about going home to my room to be by myself before._

_I wish you were here, or I guess I wish I was there. It's hard to write things down but it's easy, when it's closer to time to get up than time to go to bed and neither of us is sleeping and there's cake to ask you things, and tell you things, and I don't know if you could tell me what to do or how to feel right now but you'd at least give me cake, and suggest having Hubert make the problem "disappear", and it'd feel better to know no matter how I screw things up there won't be a worse option than that._

Saints, when did Bernie get so bad at writing letters? If she sends that, Edelgard's going to think something's wrong no matter what Bernie said in the beginning, and there's no reason to worry her. Bernie sighs and rests her pen against the page so the ink builds up in an ugly splotch, just so she can't wake up in the morning and forget she doesn't intend to send this one out, and begins to pack her things away so she can go to bed.

-

The Locket is surprisingly crowded and surprisingly well transformed, only the high walls and the heavy armaments atop them serving as reminders of its original purpose. They won't enter the next phase of opening the borders for another moon or so, if Bernie remembers right, but no one here seems to mind they can't travel past the Locket without a stack of paperwork as tall as Bernie herself. The roads once broad enough for an army to pass are crowded with stalls, merchants yelling about their wares in a mix of Almyran and Fódlan, some of the training grounds now hold tables and chairs and a selection of street food vendors, and the stable has been turned into a public horse hitch where Bernadetta and Dimitri tie their horses. Bernadetta stops just outside the stable for a moment, raising a hand to shield her eyes against the bright midday sun - all hint of last night's chill long chased away - and trying to adjust to the noise, the crowd, the bustle of it all. For the space of a few heavy blinks she thinks she might cry, of all things; she's easily overwhelmed, of course, and this is the biggest crowd they've seen since...Fhirdiad, probably if not Enbarr, but it's not just - there was so much war for so long, and now _this_.

"The Countess has a bit of a headache," Dimitri says behind her, so low she thinks she might not be supposed to hear. "If she needs to get out of the sun, could you ensure her a few moments alone in the shade?"

His purse jingles, though Bernadetta already paid to hitch the horses, and the stable hand agrees, though he sounds a little confused. Because it's an odd request, maybe, or odd to pay him for; either way, Dimitri must be satisfied because he steps up beside her. Bernie waits for him to tell her about the escape route he arranged, but he simply offers her his arm.

"Crowds have a way of making space for me," he says; she knows well enough by now not to mention they might be a little less gracious for a common traveler in heavily-mended, less-heavily-washed clothes than for a king, and it's a good thing she doesn't because it turns out that wasn't it. He's simply tall and broad enough that people seem to move out of his way as if there's no other option, as if there's an invisible wall around him pushing them aside. And it isn't even just that the crowd here is more polite than in the Empire, or even the marketplace at Garreg Mach, because the first time Bernadetta sees a stall that interests her she lets go of Dimitri's arm and the crowd swallows her up almost immediately. She has to grip the edge of the table to keep from being carried away so she can actually _look_ at all the lovely, fuzzy yarn that caught her eye until he finds her again and just like that the pressure recedes. In gratitude, she reaches up to press the skein of white wool against his cheek so he can feel how soft it is.

"Oh," he says, and leans into it a little, almost nuzzling. "That's quite nice. You knit as well? Is there no end to your creative endeavors?"

"My father was - " Bernadetta starts, without thinking, but stops herself when she realizes however that sentence was about to end is likely not appropriate for idle shopping chatter. "He was very concerned with my eventual marriage, and for a while - when my mother was still around, I think - seemed to think I would learn to be the sort of quiet and soft a potential husband would like if I simply learned so many domestic arts I had no energy left over."

"You lost your mother? I'm sorry," he says.

"Oh! No, I - she works in Enbarr," Bernadetta says, flushing a little - to say such a thing to someone who did, in fact, lose his mother! "She used to travel back and forth, but it was difficult, and when I was a little older she only came home once in a while. She was just - my father was a little kinder when she was around more often, so I always think of it as before and after." 

"Ah," he says. "Well. I was only - here."

Dimitri takes the armful of yarn from her just as she's about to drop it on the dusty ground; he has big enough hands he can hold them all with no trouble, and the dark gray skein Bernie adds to the pile as an afterthought because it'll make a nice hat. It's much easier to pay when reaching for her purse doesn't mean dropping all her precious yarn, and when she goes to take them back Dimitri just shifts them to his other hand and offers her his arm again. 

"Don't let go this time," he says, with a smile. "I nearly lost you."

"Lesson learned," she says, and can only hope he doesn't regret it as she drags him around the market, though of course he could easily stop her if he minded too much. There's the stall where she buys a bag made from a beautiful, stiff wyvern leather, so richly brown it's nearly purple, and across the way one with a variety of fruit teas, some made of fruits she's never heard of, and over here an array of pins and bows for her hair - and some ties for Dimitri's, since he always wants her to tie it up for him when it's hot - and oh! _Fabric_ , bolts and bolts of beautiful soft colors in light weaves that will be perfect for the late summer heat that's sure to greet them when they ride back down the mountains.

"Bernadetta," Dimitri says, when she pulls away a little to fondle some. "How are you going to carry that?"

"Traveling?" asks the merchant, an older woman with dark skin and a thick Almyran accent. "It's so light, it folds up quite small when it's off the bolt."

"What would you make with it all?"

"A dress," Bernie says, eyeing just how much of it there is. "Two, maybe, all mine are so worn from the trip. Oh, and I could make you some shirts! All your clothes are so heavy."

"I - that's not necessary," Dimitri says.

"Oh, you're young," says the merchant. "In a few years you'll have to beg your wife to do nice things like that, you know, you should appreciate it while you can."

"I'm not - he's - "

"Of course, I appreciate every kindness she does me," Dimitri says, and reaches past Bernadetta to feel the fabric for himself. "It is nice. Nearly the color of your eyes."

"So it is! And when I dye this color, I begin with flowers just about the color of your hair, too, so clearly it was meant for you. If you don't need a new dress - but who doesn't need a new dress? - at least get enough to make him the shirts," the merchant says, and winks. "Your husband is awfully handsome, dress him in this and everyone who sees will know who he belongs to."

"Ha!" Dimitri laughs and reaches for his own purse. "You certainly know how to make a sale. We'll take it, and - is there anything else you need, Bernadetta?"

Bernie doesn't know exactly when she lost control of the conversation - not that she's complaining, exactly, it's just that her head is spinning a little and her mouth has gone oddly dry. She picks out some pretty buttons and spools of thread in all the colors she's almost out of with all the mending she's been doing while the merchant helps Dimitri pull the fabric off the bolt and fold it down into a more manageable size. He tucks Bernadetta’s yarn into her new bag so he’s free to carry the fabric under his arm, and takes Bernadetta’s arm once again, guiding her safely through the crowd.

-

Some of the changes at the Locket are clever, and go a long way towards pulling the mind away from battles and hotly defended borders, but some are a little less so. It says a lot about the popularity of the new market and the chance for people from both sides of the border to sample goods from across the way that there was need of an inn for weary travelers who shopped for too long and don't wish to ride down the mountains in the dark, but clearly neither Claude nor Hilda anticipated that need because the barracks were clearly converted in a hurry. If Bernadetta and Dimitri truly were newlyweds on a little getaway, the heavy canvas hung in place of real walls and the narrow beds would be a significant disappointment. As it is, Dimitri is just a touch tall and a touch bulky for the military cot he sits on, likely chosen to remain as part of the inn because they can pack so many into the space and not for comfort. He won't complain, and even if he would there's nothing to be done about it, and it's not as if fitful sleep is anything new for him, so Bernadetta doesn't bother to fuss about it, much as she wants to.

The table in their room is a little small, too, but Bernie's cut herself a thousand simple shift dresses so having to fiddle a bit with the layout and leave a few centimeters of hem hanging off the edge as she cuts isn't so bad. In the flickering candlelight it looks more purple than gray, and Bernie wishes she'd asked the merchant more about the dyeing process, the flowers she used, how she made something as dull as the gray of Bernie's eyes look so rich and lovely. Maybe there are books about Almyran fabric Hubert could find for her, or when the border is more open Ferdinand can find her someone to apprentice with. Timid, terrified Bernie going to a foreign land to live and work with a complete stranger, wouldn't that be something. She'd have to learn Almyran, of course, and - 

"Did you know Mercedes knits, as well?" Dimitri says; it seems to come from out of nowhere, until Bernadetta looks up and sees he's holding one of her skeins of yarn from earlier, petting it as if it's a small, soft animal. "She made me a lovely scarf back at the Academy, though it was lost in the attack."

"It's too bad I was too afraid to talk to anyone back then," Bernadetta says, holding each piece of dress-to-be up to determine which are the nicest and should be the fronts. "Sewing, knitting, cooking - she and I might have been friends."

"You could always start now," Dimitri says. "I'm sure she would like to be friends with someone who helped Emile so much."

"Maybe," Bernie says. "I - she taught you to sew, the first time, right? Did she ever try teaching you to knit?"

"She was concerned about her knitting needles," Dimitri says. "I thought it might be easier, since they were bigger, but apparently they are more expensive to replace than sewing needles. She used me to wind yarn on occasion."

Dimitri probably liked that, as happy as it makes him when she gives him a job to do or some way to help. Bernadetta has a hard time picturing Dimitri as he was at school, she barely knew him, so the image her mind conjures is of the Dimitri who sits here with her, older and bigger and battle-scarred, holding his arms still with a soft, serene smile. He barely fits in the dorm room, in her odd manufactured memory, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head while a regular, student-sized Mercedes patiently winds her yarn.

"You just seem to like it," Bernie says, inclining her head towards the skein he's petting. "The yarn, I mean, If you want to learn, I could probably spare a few needles."

"Oh," Dimitri says, "I - no, thank you. One delicate task at a time, the sewing is difficult enough."

"When you've mastered sewing, then," she says, and smiles. "Speaking of sewing, though, do you have a shirt I could borrow?"

Dimitri stands, and Bernie is about to turn her attention back to her fabric when he reaches for the hem of the shirt he's wearing and pulls it over his head, taking his undershirt part of the way with it. It - he sleeps in his undershirt, more often than not, as hot as it's been, it's not as if she doesn't see the scarred muscles of his arms and shoulders nearly every night, but usually they change in separate little clumps of trees, or with their backs to each other, or - and usually it's darker. He's - oh, staring at her, whoops.

"Thank you," she says, a little too high and squeaky, a little too fast, but if he notices he's nice enough not to make fun of her for it. She never _knows_ with him - so often he seems like he barely notices anything, slow to see things, or respond to them, or put two and two together like he's only just woken up, then sometimes he reveals no matter how distant he looks he's actually very observant. It doesn't always help that her standards are Hubert, who notices when someone he's only seen once before is wearing different shoes the second time and what it says about them - and Sylvain, who's always known when she was about to panic or get upset before she's even figured it out herself. Well. Either Dimitri notices her blushing and squeaking and carrying on, or he doesn't; there isn't much she can do about it. Bernie's spent enough of her life trying to tone down her overreactions to know which ones are lost causes.

Dimitri hovers while she works, but she's at least used to that by now, the interest he takes in anything he doesn't know how to do. Bernadetta can't see a potential new project without wanting to be taught how; Dimitri just wants to see the way one thing turns into another. He might like gardening, when they're back in Enbarr, a way to create something without having to worry so much about what he might break.

Bernie traces the outline of the shirt with her pencil, a light touch that barely shows on the fabric just to get used to the lines, then again a few centimeters out so she'll have room for the actual seams. Dimitri gracefully steps out of her way as she moves around the table, and she hands him her pencil without thinking when it's time to switch to scissors. It's nice to have his help, his quiet interest, his company, and nice to be doing something like this for someone else; she spent so long piling blankets on her own bed, stuffing little embroidery projects in her drawers, lining her shelves and chairs with dolls because she didn't know anyone to give anything to, it still feels novel to make gifts. And even people who get annoyed when she thanks them too much will usually give up protesting about gifts eventually.

Dimitri holds her pencil while she cuts, and the scissors when it's time to trace the sleeves, and her pencil again when it's time to cut those, and makes no complaint either about being her helper or being the intended recipient of something that takes this kind of work. Some of Bernie's favorite people are the ones who have so much energy and so much to say they make up for how quiet she is, but there's a special place in her heart for anyone who can simply be quiet with her, neither of them feeling like they're doing something wrong by not carrying the conversation, and Dimitri has a special talent for that. He fetches her pins so she can pin all the pieces together so they won't get all jumbled up when she packs them, and looks at her like there's something fascinating about the simple task of holding two matching pieces of fabric together to mimic how they'll be stitched. 

"You'll strain your eyes if you work much longer," Dimitri says, eventually, and Bernie blinks; sure enough, it's fully dark outside, the contrast between the edge of the circles of light cast by the candles and the darkness of the rest of the room sharp and decisive. Oh, she had letters she was going to answer tonight - but no matter. If she doesn't finish them in the morning before they leave, she'll be able to find a courier somewhere in Goneril. 

"Oh," she says, "thank you."

He nods, quick and sharp, with that pleased little smile he gets when she makes it clear he's been helpful, and carefully packs away all the supplies he's been holding for her in all the right places, like that's how much attention he pays. It's a good thing Bernadetta has given up on trying not to watch him; it's a good thing he doesn't seem to mind.

-

Bernadetta sits at a small table near the couriers’ stall as the sun casts its first light over the Locket, scribbling her scrambled thoughts into some semblance of order. The stack of post waiting for her was quite high, and in some cases quite insistent - there are downsides, it turns out, to avoiding towns and inns as much as possible as they travel, and to throwing away all her attempts at letters as soon as she starts because she’s never quite sure what to say.

_Sylvain,_

_There is far too little red ink marking up this manuscript, are you sure you read it all the way through? If I find out you've gone back to trying to be gentle with me I'll be very upset. It doesn't bother you how quickly Ursula forgets Berthold? I worry the chapters they were together might set people up to expect the story to turn into a romance, only to disappoint them when it turns back to adventure. I didn't want her to dwell on him like he's the most important thing in her life, when of course excitement and new experiences are, but I'm beginning to doubt how believable it is to travel with someone so long and share so much only to part ways so completely._

_Do I need to send it back so you can read it again and correct it for real this time?_

_Yours,  
Bernie_

Some distance away, Dimitri laughs, the morning quiet enough as the market comes to life his voice carries quite a way. It’s odd, to see him with strangers, the way he turns charming and personable, the way his shoulders loosen and smile widens and voice adopts an odd...not quite falseness, but an unfamiliar tone, brittle in its cheerfulness if you know what to listen for. Is it being raised to be king, she wonders, that taught him how to pretend to talk to people, or is it just something about Dimitri himself that finds a way to draw people in and keep them there whether he wants it or not?

_Hubert,_

_Yes, we are more or less on schedule and should return to Enbarr by the passing of the Horsebow Moon. There has been only a little excitement, nothing to worry yourself about. The roads are perfectly safe, though I imagine the smarter bandits might be avoiding us due to my nobility, Dimitri's...stature, and us wearing our weapons rather plainly. If the Count is simply trying to tell you there is trouble with bandits and he needs help, it's likely he's telling the truth and it might be worth it to send him a few soldiers, but if he's attempting to tell you things are as bad as they were during the war he's either prone to exaggeration or trying to get something else from you. It's probably worth meeting with him to find out; you know as well as I do if someone is frightened, even if there's no good reason, you can wrap them around your little finger just by telling them you understand._

_Bernadetta_

There is no good way to answer the question Edelgard actually wants answered, whether she made the right choice pairing Dimitri and Bernadetta up like this. How to say, exactly, how happy Bernie is to have his company without getting too close to secrets that aren’t ready to be shared, or how to say how confused she is to someone who’s always given her good advice without making Edelgard worry? She sighs, and glances over her shoulder to see Dimitri looking at some sort of melon like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen, and a merchant looking at Dimitri the same way, and it’s only because her cheeks start to feel the strain Bernie even notices how widely she’s smiling.

_Edelgard_

_No, nothing has changed since my last letter, at least not anything bad. I'm still very happy with Dimitri as a traveling companion, happier all the time. I think he is, too? If not, he's a much better actor than I thought, and you should see about commuting his sentence to be served at Mittelfrank. I'm as surprised to write as you probably are to read that I don't think I would have enjoyed this trip half so much on my own._

_We have so much to talk about when I get back!!_

_Thank you, really,  
Bernie_

-

Spear fishing is harder than it looks, though Bernie is fairly sure there's some special equipment they should be using and not just their regular lances. Petra always made it look so easy, easy enough it seemed like a reasonable reaction to being a little sick of game meat and the day being too warm to resist the pull of the river. The water is so clear the fish sparkle in the sun, plump and delicious-looking, and without fail Bernadetta guesses wrong and plunges her lance down at the exact moment her target changes its course. At least Dimitri isn't faring any better, and he keeps splashing himself with the force of his thrusts. There are certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon, since it's not as if they'll starve if they keep failing.

"Aim for where it's _going_ to be," Bernie says, because it keeps repeating in her head in Petra's voice, as if it's the most obvious, easiest thing in the world.

"I know that," Dimitri says, and nearly falls over trying to spear a trout Bernadetta thinks might be taunting them. He is beautiful in the midafternoon sun, almost too bright to look at, all that messy gold hair like a crown or a halo glinting in the light. There is so much power in his shoulders, his back, his legs, as he rights himself and moves back into position to try again, and Bernadetta can't look at him without thinking about how all that power felt under her, around her, how his hips look narrow compared to his shoulders but it strained her thighs to spread them wide enough for him.

"Ha!" Dimitri shouts as he lunges, startling Bernadetta so much she loses her footing and falls into the cool water. It's shallow enough it only laps at her shoulders once she sits up, at least, though it doesn't make much difference now that she's fully soaked. Dimitri turns to face her, a fish so small there's no way they'll get any reasonable amount of meat from it limp on the end of his lance, and for a brief moment before he notices her sitting there he looks so triumphant Bernadetta can't help but laugh. Dimitri frowns, eyebrow quirked above his good eye.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine," she says, still laughing, and takes his hand when he offers it to help her up. "I tripped."

"Did you? I thought perhaps you got tired of fishing and decided to bathe instead."

Did Dimitri just...make a joke? Bernadetta tilts her head, a little less concerned about being caught staring now that she's studying him more than admiring. There's something - it isn't just the sunlight that highlights all the best of him, or the wet shirt clinging to his torso, there's something different about him since Ailell that keeps catching her attention. He sleeps nearly as much as she does, he eats as if it's not just a chore required to keep him upright, he laughs, he tells stories - tells jokes, apparently. Bernadetta has seen the sort of battle fog he went into in Ailell before, with Emile, but Emile would be quiet and withdrawn for days while the Death Knight battled for control. Dimitri seems more as if he's had a weight lifted from his shoulders, the curtains pulled back to let the light in after too many days alone in his dark room.

"Don't look at me like that, I know it wasn't funny," he says, and holds out his hand to help her up. Bernadetta takes it and nearly falls again as he simply pulls her to her feet as if she weighs nothing, but she manages to find her balance.

"I'm sorry," she says, "I was just still startled, I think."

"That's kind," he says, and laughs, and looks at the tiny dead fish speared on his lance. "I doubt this will make for a satisfying dinner."

"Perhaps we should get actual fishing equipment before we decide to fish," Bernadetta says as she slowly makes her way to the riverbank, as if fishing wasn't her idea in the first place.

"You could weave us a net," Dimitri says, brightly.

"Or we could buy one." she says, laughing and struggling to peel her wet dress over her head so she can lay it out to dry. Dimitri politely looks away, though Bernadetta's undershirt and breeches are fairly modest. "And rods. And bait, I guess."

"Perhaps the appropriate spears," he says. "For now, would you mind hunting for our dinner this evening? I thought I might take advantage of the river to bathe."

That, too, is different - not just Dimitri bothering to bathe before his hair is so greasy Bernadetta thinks it must weigh him down, make it hard to walk, but passing up a chance to wear himself out stalking into the woods for an hour or two before dinner. If only she knew him better, well enough to understand whether it's common for his moods to vary so much, or could ask someone - could ask him, ideally. What happened inside his head while he slept in Ailell, or if this is just to be expected, after one of those headaches everyone in Fhirdiad seemed so accustomed to?

"Of course," Bernadetta says, and it is her turn to politely look away, rummaging in her bag for a plain linen shift and some leather to tie her hair back with so it doesn't give her away in the brush.

-

"I broke another needle," Dimitri says, so sheepish all Bernadetta can do is smile gently at him.

"That's alright," she says, though she didn't think to buy more when they were in Goneril proper and they're beginning to run low. Oh well; they're only a few days from some of the larger towns in Gloucester, and if they run out they'll just have to ride around with holes in their trousers for a bit. "It happens."

"Would you like to..." he says, trails off as he holds his half-mended shirt towards her with the broken needle still dangling from the thread.

"If you want me to," she says, and pulls her sewing kit from her pack. "Or you can keep going, you're doing fine."

Dimitri looks at the sewing kit, and at his torn shirt, and shakes his hand out much the way Bernadetta does when she writes for too long without a break, or when she's gripping her lance too tightly and something big and heavy slams into it. She'd offer to rub it out for him, those cramps always linger unless she has a little help, but he'd say no, so she just takes the shirt and his grateful smile.

"Thank you," he says. "Sometimes it is more difficult to keep control, I fear I would only snap the rest of your needles tonight."

"Of course," she says, and sets her writing aside so she can get to work mending. It's quick work, a simple tear, and soon enough Bernie is knotting the thread and reaching for her dagger to cut it.

"Would you, ah," Dimitri says, and ducks his head. "I find I often tear my shirts in that same place, would you mind reinforcing it a bit?"

It's a little odd he's so shy about asking, even knowing as she does by now how reluctant he is to put anyone to any trouble, until Bernie remembers explaining the point of her little embroidered animals to him. He's - oh, Saints, that's cute. It's so - Bernie knows it's a little silly, her weird urge to decorate anyone or anything that stands still long enough, but that just makes it nicer when people are okay with it. Enthusiastic about it, even. Unless Dimitri really does just mean he wants a stronger seam, and she's misunderstanding his reluctance. Oh well. He's getting a little lion either way.

"Thank you," he says, when she begins stitching again. "It's - I find myself cheered up whenever I wear that shirt you mended, and I thought if I had one on my forearm that I could see when I wasn't just dressing or undressing..."

"Sometimes I mend clothes that don't really need it yet," Bernadetta says. "It's nice to strengthen it up before a thin spot turns into a hole, of course, but really it'll just be because I'm in the mood to dress it up a little."

"I've noticed you have decorative touches even on your traveling clothes," Dimitri says.

"Oh, sure," Bernadetta says. "But even that - I have to think about it, and be careful, when I'm doing it on purpose. Sometimes I just want to stitch a bunch of leaves on a green pair of pants for the sake of it, even though nobody but me will notice."

"It sounds like you have quite a bit of free time," Dimitri says, and almost immediately winces. "Not to imply - I don't mean that you seem idle, of course, you're clearly quite accomplished, and I'm sure you have plenty of responsibilities, it's only that, well - "

"It's okay," Bernadetta says. "I imagine being prince didn't leave you much time for hobbies."

"No,” he says. “I was terribly bored when I first came to Enbarr; I had some reading I wished to do, but what would have taken me years to get through turned out to only take days when I could read at my leisure. I had no idea there were so many hours in a day."

"So you like reading," she says. "And training? That seemed to take up all Felix's time."

"I do it out of necessity, mostly," Dimitri says. "I find I sleep better if I wear myself out. And it was...difficult, in Enbarr. I believe my training made more than a few people uncomfortable, and it wasn't worth the bother. I believe Hubert told me to keep it limited to late nights and early mornings, if I must at all, but I have trouble with him sometimes; I can't always tell when he's making a threat or idle conversation."

"There's no real trick to it," Bernie says, filing in quite a fluffy mane on the little embroidered lion; she's nearly out of this blue thread, so she'll just use it all up here and not have an odd amount left over. "You have to guess. It gets easier the longer you know him, I think. But I don't know why he'd stop you from training?"

"The mad king Edelgard dethroned, already allowed to roam freely around the palace rather than held in a prison cell, working to improve his fighting skill? What would I need to stay in fighting shape for, other than to turn on her and ride to Faerghus to lead a revolution, or turn my madness against her detractors?"

Bernadetta hasn't heard Dimitri sound quite so bitter; quiet and sad on occasion, bright and cheerful with increasing frequency, and carefully, tightly neutral mostly in their first few days traveling together, but this is sharp and brittle and seems to slice clean through her, fitting punishment for being thoughtless. It's easy to forget he wasn't just living in Enbarr, didn't simply follow Edelgard home of his own accord, that not wanting to be king isn't the same as not caring whether he's free or not.

"I'm sorry," she says. "That was - I'm sorry."

"It's alright," he says. "In truth I think it was more - I hope it won't offend you if I say people were, as far as I can tell, quite relieved Emile chose not to return to Enbarr after Shambhala fell. He was a sign the Emperor could turn on anyone at any time, that she was always prepared to kill for her goals, and his absence sent a stronger message of peace than even the treaty, I think. Perhaps it was simply that no one trusted I wouldn't take his place if the Emperor determined more violence was necessary. Or perhaps I was imagining things."

Bernadetta doesn't quite know what to say - not to defend Emile, certainly, because there is no defending him, or to claim Edelgard wouldn't do any of it again, because nobody can promise that, or agree that Dimitri couldn't trust his own sense of how people behaved around him. So she nods, and finishes tying off her embroidery, and bites down the urge to apologize ten or eleven more times the way she's been told can be a bit overwhelming. She isn't sure if it makes any sense, to tell him she forgets, sometimes, that he's the same Dimitri as the one they went to war against, if that would upset him, so she doesn't say that, either, just hands his shirt back to him fully adorned.

"Perfect," he says, running his fingers over the little lion. "Thank you."

"If you - um," Bernie says, and takes a deep breath. "If you like to read, you can read my writing some time. Um, if you want to. I write - I just got my novel back from Sylvain, so it's all marked up with his notes, but if you don't mind reading around those, you can - you don't have to, of course, but - um. Just. If you get bored?"

Dimitri smiles at her, gentle in a way that makes her think maybe he understands how scary an offer that is, even though he probably doesn't know he's only the third - fourth, if she counts Emile, but he never ended up reading anything she wrote - person she's given that permission to. Or he's not interested and he's making a gentle face because he's worried he'll upset her when he refuses, oh no. Oh, she's made him feel awkward, now he's going to think he has to read it or she'll cry, what a stupid -

"I don't find myself with as much spare time out here," he says. "But if you mean that, I'll of course take you up on it. Sylvain always made you sound quite talented."

"Oh, that's not - he's - you know how Sylvain is," she says, and Dimitri laughs.

"I do," he says. He folds his shirt and smiles at her across the fire. "So I'm sure I'll enjoy it."


	5. Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Bernadetta visit some familiar places and some old friends, and for perhaps the first time in his life Dimitri finds himself eager to wear a crown.

Lorenz once told Bernadetta that one could navigate through Gloucester by the smell of the roses alone, as long as the county seat was the destination. Like so much of what Lorenz says it's an exaggeration but not exactly untrue; they're an hour's ride from the now-public gardens when Bernadetta begins to notice the perfume on the air, but that's still a pretty reasonable distance to brag about. It's helped, of course, by the wild roses that grow here and there by the roadside, and - either as a show of loyalty or because they grow so well here - most homes and shops seem to have a bush or two, but she's happy to grant Lorenz the technicality. It's a beautiful day for a ride, and a beautiful country to ride through, and Dimitri is as cheerful as he’s been since they started up the mountains towards the Locket.

"Wait," he says, again, and Bernie brings Bear around to see him dismounting and heading off towards the lightly wooded area just off the road, where wild roses are blooming in a brilliant orange that makes her think of Annette. It's his seventh or eight stop since they set off that morning, and there’s now a sizable bouquet with nearly every color in the rainbow secured by a leather tie to one of Bernadetta's bags. Any girl at Garreg Mach receiving a bouquet of that size might assume she were being proposed to, and Dimitri shows no sign of slowing down. Bernadetta isn't even sure what she's going to do with them all - her plans were to take some blooms from the Gloucester gardens themselves to press so she can make something to send Lorenz, but at this rate she won't have room for them if she preserves even half of Dimitri's bouquet.

Bernie holds her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun as Dimitri finishes collecting his treasures and turns back towards her, looking for all the world like an eager pup playing his first game of fetch; he's so eager to help, and so pleased when he does, Bernie hasn't been able to bring herself to tell him she has enough. He tucks them carefully into the brilliant bouquet and mounts his horse once again, nodding to let Bernadetta know he's ready to get going.

"I can see why you wanted to come here so badly," he says. "I wonder if Dedue would like some roses."

"We can talk to the gardener at the estate," Bernadetta says. "The climate's different, but they might be able to come up with something worthy of the royal gardens."

"And when you next write to Edelgard you can tell her we're negotiating diplomatic exchanges," Dimitri says, "so she'll know you've found some use for me."

"I've found plenty of uses for you." Oh, it’s a good thing Bernie’s riding in front; as soon as she hears what she's said her cheeks go pink. Plenty indeed.

"So you have," Dimitri says, with a laugh, and they fall back into a comfortable, friendly silence until the next time he spots a flash of color and veers away. Bernadetta watches him, the cheerful swing in his step, the way he waves and exchanges a few words with an older couple taking a walk, the care he takes to trim flowers from the edges of the bush, full blooms that will start to wilt in a day or so even without being plucked. 

All the stops make for slower progress than planned, and though Bernadetta hoped to picnic closer to the gardens her stomach insists they stop well short. It's probably for the best; she and Dimitri find a nice out of the way spot, hidden from the road by the sparse woods, far quieter than anywhere else they might have ended up. Bernie lays out a blanket and some of their food while Dimitri tends to the horses, and perhaps if she'd taken a moment or two longer she might have missed the way he winced handling the rough straps of the feed bags, but she certainly notices the multitude of cuts on his hands when he reaches for a wedge of cheese.

"Dimitri!" she says, and grabs his wrist so she can examine him. "What happened?"

"Oh," he says, attempting to tug his hand away - though not very seriously, or he'd easily succeed. "I wasn't careful enough with the roses."

"I just assumed you were wearing gloves," Bernie says, and closes her eyes so she can focus on a little bit of healing magic. Dimitri sighs, the softest, mildest little exhalation, and relaxes in her grip.

"I was," he says, "only it was a little warm, and I - thank you."

"Of course," she says, and lets him go so they can eat. It's a good meal; they passed a small market early that morning, and they have fresh cheese and bread and fruit to break up their routine a little. The sun is bright, but not overly so, and the day is, for sure, too warm for Dimitri's heavy gloves but only just. When she's had her fill Bernadetta carefully retrieves the impressive bouquet, her own gloves, and a wicked little pocketknife Hubert probably assumed she would conceal on her person somewhere and not keep out of reach in her pack.

Dimitri, as he did when they first started their journey and has since Ailell, eats at least twice as much as Bernadetta, but he watches her while he does, always so curious about her projects. One by one she trims the roses, cutting the stems a bit shorter than Dimitri had and then slicing the thorns off with deft flicks of her wrist; Dimitri laughs a little at the first cut, sheepish for not having thought of it himself, but of course he wouldn't have. He's certainly not the first person Bernadetta's met who forgets his own comfort when worrying about someone else, though he might be the most intense about it.

"What will you do with them all?" Dimitri asks when she's finished, when they're all laid out on the grass taking up far more room than Bernadetta had expected. She pulls out a few for preserving, one that had looked pink at a distance but is, in fact, creamy white with only a little deep red at the edges, and one of the orange ones, and a yellow nearly identical to the Blaiddyd Roses in Fhirdiad, but that still leaves more than a dozen to simply let wilt and discard. Or, hm. The stems are a little woody, not especially flexible, but if she trims them down a little...

Dimitri doesn't seem to mind that she doesn't answer him; he watches her split a few stems into thirds with the same interest as always, but before long he begins gathering up their dishes to go wash them and pack everything up. It's kind of nice, the way he's curious about so many of the things she does, but Bernie hasn't done this in a long time and it's also nice to be able to remember how without an audience. It's silly, and it means they'll have even less time at the Gloucester gardens this afternoon - little enough they might as well stay the night somewhere and visit tomorrow - but Dimitri spent so much time collecting treasures for her it'd be a shame to let them go to waste. Besides, it's nice out, and Bernie's enjoying not being on a horse; she hums to herself a little as she works, lets the background noises of Dimitri tending to the horses and rearranging their bags for a better load fade away. She twists stems around each other in a careful braid, plucking flowers from the pile as the mood strikes her, giving no thought to matching or creating any kind of pattern, and only has to discard a few after twisting too tightly and breaking the stems.

At some point, Dimitri comes to join her on the blanket again, that earnest blue eye fixed on the quick movements of her fingers. It would be nice if - sometimes the way he watches her makes something sweet and terrifying bubble up in her stomach, a different kind of terrifying than most attention is, and Bernie wishes she could know for sure whether it's because of Ailell or if she'd feel this way even if they hadn't - if she didn't know what he feels like, how good it could be. There was Felix, and once she figured out he was just as confused and out of his depth as she was everything was almost _easy_ , and there was Emile, and that was only ever about the circumstance; none of her experience is much help here. Normally she would ask Sylvain, but she won’t tell Dimitri's friend Dimitri's secrets, or Dorothea, but she certainly can't put any of this in a letter. Bernadetta twists too tightly, breaks another stem, and sighs. It isn't worth worrying about, anyway. She shakes her head, and hopes if Dimitri notices he just assumes she's upset with herself for making a mistake.

"There," she says, finally, and holds up the ring of flowers she's braided together, a little clumsy and a little bulky but bright and beautiful and, she thinks, a worthwhile thing to have spent a lazy afternoon on. Dimitri tilts his head in confusion for a moment, then nods and laughs a little and leans forward. Bernadetta gently places the crown of roses on his head, and he sighs the same way he did when she healed the cuts on his hands, soft and gentle and like she's just repaired something broken in him. Oh, a crown, she should have - oh, Bernie. Well, he didn't stop her, and when she lets go so he can lift his head he's smiling, so it must be alright.

"When you next write to Edelgard," he says, and laughs again, "you probably shouldn't mention this. I would hate to see you hanged for treason."

"No," Bernadetta says; for the obvious reason, but more because this - Dimitri in the late afternoon sun, crowned in pink and red and orange and white, hair soft and loose around his shoulders, smiling at her like they share a secret - isn't something Bernie wants to share with anyone.

-

Bernadetta's father would be pleased with how she's chosen to spend her day. 

It's only since his death she can think something like that and not immediately lose her taste for whatever it is she's doing - so many scarves half-knit, meals half-cooked, paintings half-finished - but now she can just think it, and feel briefly almost, but not quite, sad, and push it to the back of her mind. Her interest in gardening was always fine, because any wealthy husband would surely be pleased with a wife who could make his estate the finest in the Empire, and aside from being something she could do quietly her painting demonstrated a care and talent he would of course be pleased to take ownership of. Nothing in the Gloucester gardens eats insects, or stinks of false rot, or mimics the look of slime or mold, and at least for the moment she has no plans to hide any shadowy lurking beasts in her painting of the unique varieties of rose that only grow here. It is bittersweet to think that if only he had taken a few steps back, if only he could have given up some control without making her fight for it, he might have ended up with exactly the daughter he wanted after all.

"That's beautiful," Dimitri says as he comes up behind her, and Bernie is proud of herself for only squeaking a little. "I hardly know which are real and which are painted."

"You can see the edges of the canvas.”

"And yet the compliment stands," he says, and sets his basket of food on the bench beside her. Bernadetta stretches, feeling for the first time the stiffness that's set in to her neck and shoulders and forearms; she isn't exactly sure how long ago he went off to fetch lunch, but based on how good it feels simply to set her brush down and flex her fingers it must have been a while. The back of her neck is warm from the sun, and when Dimitri pulls the napkin from atop the basked her stomach growls quite loudly. He's polite enough not to laugh at her, at least, though he does raise his eyebrows and smile so not polite enough to pretend he didn’t notice altogether.

The food - an assortment of hand pies, some with spiced meat, some with leafy greens and sharp cheese, and some with fruit - is delicious, and there is something special to the way the perfume of the garden flirts with the flavors of the pies, to being somewhere so beautiful and quiet, to the pleasant fuzz that tends to settle over Bernadetta's mind and keep her calm when she's been working on something so carefully. There have been few enough times in Bernadetta's life where everything else, everything terrible and frightening and worrying, everything she's done wrong and everything she's failed to be, falls away so she can simply sit and be happy that each time feels special, worth noting. In the greenhouse at Garreg Mach, a couple times, when the greenhouse keeper and the other students kept their distance; by a quiet lake with Felix, after they left the monastery and before all the traveling and fighting wore them down, when he told her how he didn't care what he did next as long as it was with her; crouched on a sturdy branch high in a tree moments after an arrow flew from her bow, when it hit her she and Emile had just finished off each name on their list and their deadly work was over; in Enbarr, when Hubert or Ferdinand or Edelgard would come to her rooms in the middle of the day for a moment of peace and quiet and Bernadetta understood she was giving something back to the people who gave her so much.

And here in the garden, with nothing to do but take it all in and perhaps make something beautiful enough to bring her mind back here whenever she needs.

"Oh," Dimitri says, and reaches into his pack to retrieve a small straw bundle. "I brought you something."

It unfolds as he passes it to her to reveal a straw hat with a wide brim, a little creased from sitting in his bag but not too much worse for wear.

"It's no crown, of course," he says, "but you often lean forward when you work and expose your neck to the sun, and I thought this might help."

Bernadetta turns it over in her hands a few times, admiring the tight weave of the straw, and puts it on; it's a little big, the brim flopping awkwardly into her field of vision until she adjusts it, but it blocks out the sun quite nicely, and there's a cord to tie beneath her chin so the wind won't take it. She has one like it in Enbarr, a little too worn and ratty to bother bringing on the trip; funnily enough, it was a gift from Edelgard, though she's not sure if Dimitri would find that funny so she keeps it to herself. There's a woven ribbon tied just above the brim, white with the signature red and purple Gloucester roses embroidered all the way around, and Bernie clutches it to her chest for a moment, delighted, crumpling it even more.

"I - thank you!" she says. "It's so pretty."

"It looked like something you would make," Dimitri says. "And I - as I understand it, healing yourself even of something minor is quite taxing, so I thought it might help to simply prevent the burns. And it, ah - you look nice."

In truth, Bernadetta hardly ever bothers to heal herself, not minor things like the irritation from the sun nor bigger cuts and bruises. If it doesn't need a vulnerary, it's not worth the trouble, and Bernie likes the way pain sharpens her focus a little, almost like wiping rain out of her eyes - then, again she does hate the way her clothes rub against the redness when she rides, and how uncomfortable it can be to sleep on her back. Bernadetta likes giving gifts - needs to, sometimes, to keep the worst of her doubts about why anyone would bother keeping her around at bay - but she isn't very good at receiving them, and it takes her a moment to realize she's just beaming a little stupidly at Dimitri.

"Thank you," she says again, and Dimitri ducks his head a little, cheeks pink, and turns his attention back to his lunch. Bernie watches him for a moment, something she seems to do as a matter of habit now when her mind isn't otherwise occupied, but soon enough she remembers her painting and leaves him to eat, and eventually to wander the garden - and to lean in to smell nearly every bloom, and stop to chat with other people out for a walk - in peace.

-

Bernadetta likes rain the same way she likes the nighttime, for many of the same reasons. It drives people indoors and makes them stay put, so an anxious girl terrified of running into anyone can do things like take a walk around the monastery grounds; it creates beautiful, moody lighting to inspire her work; it muffles everything under a blanket of white noise so even though no one is sleeping their voices don't disturb her. She used to like the rain when she was traveling with Felix, too, the way it sounded against their tent like something entirely different than against stone walls and tile roofs, the respite it gave them. She would probably like it now, even, if she was sitting cozy in their little tent, knitting and humming along to the patter of it outside.

But it wasn't raining when they packed up camp this morning, so she isn't sitting in the tent, or knitting, or humming. She's soaked through, all the way to her bones, and even though the day is quite warm she feels like she _should_ be shivering. Their packs are mostly waterproof, though she's not sure they've ever been tested to quite this extent, so they'll have dry clothes and towels when they get to an inn, but that won't be for hours at least. Part of the appeal of this route was it takes them mostly through the backcountry, where Bernadetta can admire the wild plant life and Dimitri can tire himself out setting up camp and hunting for their dinner each night. They could stop to wait out the rain, but there's no real hope of drying off until it stops or they find better shelter and Bernie would rather keep moving than sit still.

Dimitri still seems to be in high spirits, at least. Bernie was worried when the clouds started gathering, thick and dark, but this isn't the sort of storm they saw in Faerghus, where the heat bore down on them more and more for days as the storm approached, just a simple summer rain, and he shows no signs of the headache that plagued him there. He's taken his hair down, for reasons Bernie can't begin to guess - she hastily tied her own up as the sky darkened, and curses the shorter parts as they stick to her face and drip water down her neck - and shakes it out vigorously every now and then, like a dog, laughing every time he does so. It's funny - Bernadetta didn't see him much in Enbarr, both of them too happy keeping to themselves, but between her few glimpses of him there and her brief time in the Blue Lions before Edelgard attacked she thought of him as a sad, serious sort of person, quiet and withdrawn. But there's so much that seems to delight him, so much joy he finds even in small things so often, it's almost like she's traveling with a different person.

"Are you sure you don't wish to stop?" Dimitri calls over his shoulder.

"I'm sure," she says, raising her voice so he can hear her over the wind. "It's not like we can get any wetter."

He laughs, and circles back to ride beside her. "Do you want my cloak?"

"I don't think it will do me much good now."

"No," he says, "likely not. You just look so unhappy, I wish I could do something."

"You can find me an inn," she says, though his smile is a little infectious and in truth her mood is already lifting. "Or a tavern. A shack? A roof and at least three walls."

"Right away, my lady," Dimitri says, and laughs again as he pulls ahead, leaning into his horse and urging her into a faster trot so he disappears out of sight around the next bend. Bernie shakes her head; he won't find anything, she's certain, and she thinks he knows that as well as she does. Perhaps he simply wants to run his horse a little, splash in the puddles and enjoy whatever it is he finds so pleasing about being soaked through; perhaps he truly cares that much about seeing her happy. Either way, Bernie urges Bear to speed up a little, just fast enough she won't entirely lose track of Dimitri, and the pack horse falls into step behind.

-

For the first time on their long trip, Dimitri is still in his bedroll when Bernadetta wakes, pale and drawn with a dark shadow under his eye. He groans, a small, pitiful sound, and pushes his head against his pillow as if attempting to bury himself inside. Bernadetta reaches over to feel his forehead for unusual warmth; he startles at her touch, but before she can pull away pushes into it instead, like he had with the pillow. He opens his eye and looks at her, cloudy and distant and confused, then winces and closes it again. He isn't feverish, at least, but Bernadetta sighs - they're hours from anywhere she could bring him to rest his headache out in a real bed, and even if he could ride he was so...erratic the last time she's worried he'd have trouble managing the horses.

It's one of the more comfortable camps they've set up, at least; with space to spread out and settle, rather than hastily throwing up their tent and a cooking fire by the roadside when they got tired of looking for a better spot. Dimitri washed some of their clothes and blankets in the river last night while she cooked, so if he sweats through his bedding she can freshen it up for him, the horses have plenty of room to roam so they won't mind a day's idleness, and there shouldn't be anyone riding by to disturb them. Bernie wraps up in her blanket without bothering to dress and ducks outside to start a fire and get some of his tea brewing.

Dimitri does not suffer quietly; he tosses and turns, groans and sighs, like anyone in pain might, but he also talks. She still doesn't know who it is he sees when he's like this, wouldn't know how to ask even if it was any business of hers, but he only seems to feel the need to address them during his headaches. Bernie tries not to listen, but the part of her mind that always sees the worst outcome of any situation keeps telling her he's going to need help, going to call for her, and she'll miss it and neglect him. It seems to be mostly arguing, though Bernadetta can't begin to guess what it's about from Dimitri's quiet, short side of the conversation. Sometimes he apologizes, low and so mournful it makes her eyes prickle with tears she has to blink away. He never actually calls for her; she isn't sure he remembers she's there, because when he throws the tea cup and groans about how thirsty he is he seems truly surprised she comes in to refill it.

In Fhirdiad, Dimitri told her he didn't stay still well when he has a headache, but he doesn't emerge from the tent until well after Bernadetta's had her lunch. He stands, awkwardly hunched, in the lighter layer of travel clothes he wears for sleeping and scowls at the sun so fiercely Bernie half expects it to run for cover behind a cloud. He blinks rapidly, and groans a little, and turns to duck back into the darkness of the tent.

"Wait," Bernie says, and stands, undoing the tie of her sunhat under her chin. "Here."

Hunched over as he is, it's easy enough to settle the hat on his head and tie it in place; it's a little small, but the brim is wide enough to cast his face in shadow, and the tension in his expression eases even before he opens his eye.

"Better?" she asks.

"I - yes," he says. "Thank you."

Bernie nods and backs away, giving him a little space. "Would you like more tea? Or lunch?"

"Tea," he says, and looks up and over a little, to the familiar spot over her shoulder. "Stop it."

"Tea," Bernadetta repeats, ignoring the rest, and takes the kettle to the river to fill it fresh. Dimitri sits, or sort of crouches, on a log that's too low for him, perched like he might have to make a run for it at any moment, and glares daggers at whichever phantom is tormenting him. She sets the kettle on the fire, adds a few fresh spoonfuls of Dedue's tea blend to the pot, and soon enough the spicy-sweet fragrance of Dimitri's tea blends with the bright, grassy smell of the forest around them. His shoulders lower a little, though he still looks tense and uncomfortable, and Bernadetta goes back to her sewing.

The shirt she cut for Dimitri will be a little big for him, but that should help keep him from straining the seams quite so much. Even so, she's making them three times as strong as usual, though it makes her progress painfully slow. As hard as it is watching Dimitri suffer like this, hands clumsy when he goes to pour himself some tea and that gaunt, haunted look on his face, it's nice to have a day to just sit and work. It's fairly mindless, too, so she can keep one eye on him as he starts to wander, pacing and muttering to himself and whoever it is who keeps him company when he hurts. Or she can for a little while, anyway, until she finishes the side seams and shoulders and has to pin the sleeves in place - most of this has been fine for travel sewing, but this would have been nice to do at an inn, or pub, somewhere with a table she could - 

Bernie jumps and squeaks a little as something catches in her hair, and it immediately moves away.

"Ah, sorry, I - it seemed like it was bothering you, and I - I'm sorry, I did not mean to frighten you."

"Oh," Bernie says, tilts her head back to see Dimitri standing behind her, hands hovering awkwardly and bottom lip between his teeth. "You just startled me. I - did you - "

"Would you like me to braid it for you?" he asks, and Bernadetta...doesn't know what to say, exactly. A project might be better for his pained restlessness than aimless wandering, certainly, and of course he won't be able to control his strength well enough to sew, and he likes to do things for people so much she's almost surprised he hasn't asked before, as her hair gets ever longer and more unruly. It's just unexpected, and she isn't sure - there are a lot of other ways she would like his hands on her, and she's been trying so hard not to think about them.

"Go ahead," she says, though, because - well. Just because. "Thank you."

Dimitri combs through her hair, surprisingly gentle, coaxing out the tangles from too much restless sleeping and too long without washing, running his blunt fingers through until he meets no resistance. Bernadetta was going to keep up her pinning and sewing, but it's been so long since she took this kind of care with herself, so much longer since someone else has, and it feels so nice all she can do is tilt her head into his hands and enjoy it. Dimitri's still gentle when he gathers her hair into strands, and she can tell he's trying when he begins to twist it around itself, though more than once he pulls just a little too hard. It's fine, it isn't - Bernie's never minded a little pain, learned a long time ago to use the burst of extra clarity and focus to her advantage. 

When he finishes and produces a tie from somewhere to loosely bind the ends, Bernadetta can feel how lopsided it is, and when he pulled too tightly where, but it's all out of her face, and she feels so warm and pleased she could just melt into the forest floor so it doesn't really matter. 

"Thank you," Dimitri says, and she laughs before she can think better of it; it just bubbles up and out of her, silly and delighted.

"I think I'm supposed to thank you," she says, and he tugs lightly on the end of her braid before returning to the fire to pour himself more tea and get back to his roaming.

-

In sharp contrast to the sprawling gardens and stately manor Lorenz left behind in Gloucester, the Ordelia county seat is such a modest home if Lysithea weren't sitting in the front garden Bernadetta would worry she got the directions wrong. But there she is, curled up on a worn wooden bench, heavy blanket on her lap despite the warmth of the day and a stack of books nearly as tall as she is beside her. She barely looks up from her reading when Bernadetta and Dimitri dismount, and Bernie looks around a little desperately to see if she can spot the stables herself only for Linhardt to come out the front door and save her.

"You're early," he says.

"We're three days late," Bernadetta says, and he tilts his head for a moment, considering, then shrugs.

"Oh. Well, either way, I wasn't expecting you. If you want to take a nap, you'll have to use my room for now, yours isn’t ready."

It's only midmorning, a few hours and a leisurely ride from when she and Dimitri woke up, but that sort of thing has never really mattered to Linhardt.

"I think we're alright," she says, and Linhardt shrugs.

"Let me know," he says, and leads them to the small stables around the back. Linhardt's sleepy old mare and Caspar's war horse are there, though they pay Bernadetta and Dimitri very little attention once they realize neither of them have any treats. It's a little stable, to go with the little house, and Bear has perhaps gotten a little too used to sleeping out in the open because he tosses his head a little in protest. 

"Oh, now, you don't want us to think you've gotten spoiled, do you?" Dimitri asks, and rubs his nose. Bear settles right down for him and Bernie looks at Linhardt, not because she expects to really see anything there but because looking at Dimitri being sweet to her horse is like looking directly into the sun. Linhardt raises his eyebrow at her and Bernie sighs - she can't look _anywhere_ , none of it's safe. Dimitri pats Bear's nose one more time with a soft smile and goes back to unloading the pack horse so she can rest, and Bear settles happily into his stall when Bernie leads him there.

"Flirt," she says; he just snorts and starts looking for food. 

Caspar is there when they come back around to the front, holding up a worn quilt and shaking it a little.

" _I_ know you're fine," he says. "But I also know if Lin sees you shivering he'll slow down your treatments, and you don't want that."

Lysithea glares at him over her book; she looks smaller than Bernadetta remembers, like she might just blow away on a strong enough breeze, and there are dark circles under her eyes, but she also looks like she might just blast Caspar into dust where he stands. He wiggles the quilt again and she sighs, darts her hand out, and snatches it with all the speed of someone who thinks something they want very much is about to be taken away from them.

"See? The sooner you get better, the sooner we can leave, and stop - oh, hey, Bernie!"

"Thank the goddess," Lysithea says. "Someone else for you to bother."

Caspar lunges at her the way he might a grappling partner and wraps her up in a hug that's not entirely unlike a tackle; at least her legs are nice and strong from so long riding all over the continent, so he doesn't knock her over the way he used to. He does squeeze her so tight it's almost hard to breathe, and lifts her off the ground just because he can, and by the time he sets her down Bernie's head is spinning a little. She used to have a higher tolerance, when they were together all the time - it's a little sad to think it's been so long she isn't _used_ to him anymore.

"Alright, start talking. Lin says you guys fought off a pack of demonic beasts? Obviously I want to know everything, I can't believe you got that kind of excitement and all we've had is a few raggedy bandit gangs! Do you think there are more, if, say, someone wanted to go clean 'em out for good? How many were there, what was it like without having a whole battalion backing you up, was it - "

"You're making it _very_ difficult to concentrate," Lysithea says, wrapped up snugly in the quilt Caspar brought and glaring at him like she might be trying to kill him with just a look. "And being a terrible host. Bernadetta, if you'd like to put any of those bags Caspar hasn't offered to take for you down, you can do so just inside the door."

"I think you're supposed to be the host," Caspar says, but he holds his hand out and waits for Bernie to hand him a few of her bags. By the time she's disentangled enough to satisfy him, Linhardt and Dimitri have caught up, and in the chaos of getting them settled Caspar forgets, for now, to make Bernadetta relive everything - almost - that happened in Ailell.

-

Linhardt has a workspace set up in the back in what was likely the gardener’s home once upon a time. He and Caspar have only been here for a few moons, and to hear Caspar talk they're planning to set back out again any day now, but the top floor has been converted entirely into a cozy library with a solid table, a handful of plush, mismatched chairs, and books packed so tightly the shelves nearly bow beneath their weight; the kitchen surfaces are all covered with little glass bottles and vials and tubes with interesting-looking liquids glittering innocently in the sun and a cauldron sits heavy in the fireplace instead of the standard cooking pot; the sitting room has more bookshelves, a heavy desk with plenty of writing space, and a daybed for Linhardt's many naps. It hasn't taken him much time at all to turn this little vacant home into his perfect research center, and it's hard to imagine he'll want to leave it when the time comes.

The only downside is the noise, though Linhardt has never minded that as much as Bernie. It should be quiet, tucked away from the rest of the house, nestled among the trees, but most of the garden has been cleared down to packed earth for a sizable training ground. Bernie knows how much Caspar trains, and how loud he is even when he's by himself, and at the moment both Dimitri and Lysithea are sparring with him. Even Dimitri is yelling, in rage when he charges in and in pain when Lysithea lands a particularly nasty dark spell, and Bernie wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything out here. But then, she's seen all the places Linhardt has managed to fall asleep, so she knows how little noise actually bothers him.

"Amazing," Linhardt says, like she's shown him something incredible and not her little jars of gray, sad moss from Ailell. "I wonder how long..."

He wanders off towards the kitchen and doesn't finish his thought, but whatever he's wondering probably isn't something Bernadetta could tell him, anyway. She looks out the window and watches the sparring match for a moment, at Dimitri laughing while he tries to catch his breath, Lysithea healing an ugly oozing dark magic wound on his side. She looks better than she has since Bernadetta and Dimitri arrived, flushed and wild and alive, more like a combatant than someone just waiting around for an illness to either go away or claim her, and Caspar is babbling a mile-a-minute, running over the highlights of that last match like he's talking to people who weren't just there for it. Bernie reaches for her satchel to sketch the scene before her, but she's only just blocked out the rough gestures when Linhardt calls for her.

The day passes so pleasantly Bernadetta can hardly tell it's passing at all; Linhardt quizzes her about Ailell, the temperature and the ground cover and the moss, whether it got cooler at night, whether either of them touched the ground with bare skin and if it burned, how many pads and blankets they had to put down when they made camp before sleeping was comfortable. He putters around with her carefully collected little jars, pouring some of his pretty liquids on one in a flat glass dish, casting a spell on another, running upstairs for a stack of books and comparing the third to pictures in each of them. He sighs when she can't remember things, or when the things she remembers aren't exactly the things he would have preferred, and she just rolls her eyes because Linhardt is one of few people it's never been especially scary to disappoint.

Dimitri's voice carries on the breeze, even into the little kitchen with the fire crackling and Linhardt muttering under his breath and clinking his instruments around, his battle cries and his helpful advice and his laughs, so many laughs. He was bright and flushed and happy when Bernie sparred with him in Fhirdiad, but not quite to the point of this open, unbridled laughter. But he's happier now in so many ways than he was in Fhirdiad; whatever about going there was good for him, having it behind him seems to be even better.

"What are you sewing?" Linhardt asks. "It must be nice, you're smiling at it. Oh, remind me again, how many beasts were there?"

Bernadetta tells the story, again, and tries to keep herself focused on the facts of the battle and the scenery and not the memory of Dimitri's broad thighs beneath her own. She works on Dimitri's shirt - nearly finished now, but for the lion she's embroidering near the cuff - when Linhardt loses himself in research, and answers his questions when he remembers he has them to ask, and paws greedily through his books on plant life when he remembers to show them to her.

"Hey," Caspar says, and Bernie jumps a little; she hadn't heard him come in, and he's not usually capable of sneaking. "Lysithea's going to bed, she said if you need to wake her up for her treatment she probably won't kill you, but no promises if anyone wakes her for anything else. You two gonna be all night?"

"Bed?" Linhardt asks, frowning. "It's only - oh. When did it get so dark?"

"The normal time," Caspar says, and laughs. "At least come eat something."

Bernadetta looks out the window and blinks a few times; sure enough, it's so dark all she can really see is her reflection. Linhardt must have been lighting lanterns and candles as he worked, keeping the cozy kitchen laboratory so bright Bernie didn't even realize the sun had gone down. She shakes her head, clears the fog of focusing too hard for too long, and pushes herself up to stand on legs a little stiff from too much time curled up in a chair. The short walk to the house proper clears her head further, which mostly just makes her realize how tired and hungry she is. It's a little like being back at Garreg Mach, really, when she'd spend weekends in some comfortable corner, hidden from everyone, until it was late enough the dining hall would be suitably empty.

"Ah, there you are," Dimitri says; he sits at the kitchen table with his damp hair falling around his face, eating from a plate piled high with cold meats and veggies. "Caspar mentioned the fine writing desk in Linhardt's study, I thought you might simply stay there until we leave."

"It's a nice desk," Bernie says, and sits beside him, only realizing as she does she should have gotten her own plate first. She sighs a little, but before she can stand back up Dimitri pushes his own plate over in front of her.

"You look tired," he says, and takes one last spear of carrot. "And this is my third helping."

Bernie should protest - she's more than capable of getting her own dinner, and she knows how much Dimitri eats - but he's smiling at her, soft and warm, and when she doesn't take anything right away he pushes the plate a little more emphatically. So Bernadetta laughs, and takes a piece of venison, and eats her fill with Dimitri smiling and stealing bites as the mood strikes him.

When Bernadetta finally sleeps, she dreams of that smile, and the twinkle in his eye as he stole a particularly tasty-looking hunk of roast potato, of the heat of his body pressed against her and the power in his hips and shoulders, of the bite in his kiss and all the passion burning just behind it, waiting for her to set it free. 

-

The little library in the second floor of Linhardt's workshop is warm and cozy, probably more conducive to napping than learning - but then, with Linhardt, he's always worked best when he knows he could stop working at any time, for any reason. Bernadetta spends the morning inking her sketch from the day before, Dimitri laughing and Lysithea healing and Caspar shouting, so she can leave it as a gift for...one of them. She thinks Lysithea is turning out best, glowing with energy and flushed pink from exertion, but Linhardt has such a fondness for Bernie's pieces of Caspar at his most, well, _Caspar_. 

Linhardt brings tea in the early afternoon, while Bernie is inking the strong curve of Dimitri's thighs, carefully rendering the power of his stance even at rest. If she had been working on something else at the time, perhaps, or if her dreams had been less insistent, or if Dimitri's voice didn't carry quite so well all the way up the stairs as he hefted whatever lawn furniture Lysithea wanted him to move, Bernie might have managed to stop thinking about it for a little while. But, alas, all those things were true.

"Is there - I don't even know if you know anything about demonic beasts. Does their blood - or their venom, maybe, have, um, side effects? Certain...properties?"

"The venom has a number of side effects," Linhardt says. "You'll have to be more specific."

"Well, if - some crests can have...bedroom applications," Bernadetta says. "And I don't think it's a coincidence, because it feels a little different when mine activates - never mind. I just mean, if there's something about crests that can be, um, arousing, and the beasts have something to do with crest stones, is it possible they could have that kind of effect on someone?"

Linhardt leans back in his chair and tilts his head a little. "Are you asking me if demonic beast blood could be used as an aphrodisiac?"

"Or venom! And I just - not to _use_ , I want to know if contact might make someone - if someone might make choices they wouldn't otherwise make, because of the...properties."

"Berna _detta_ ," he says, eyes lighting up. "You have the _worst_ taste. Tell me everything."

Bernie sighs. Linhardt is such a double-edged sword, easy to talk to, but blunt in a way that sets all her worst anxiety off. He's never judged her especially harshly, questioned her judgement or her sanity or her ability to make her own choices, but he also never fails to let her know exactly what he thinks of what she ends up doing with that particular ability. 

"My taste is fine," she says. "And it wasn't - it was a heat of battle thing, you know?"

"Ugh," Linhardt says, but he's smiling. "Caspar gets like that, too, and I've never understood it. Battles are exhausting, and there are corpses everywhere. And the blood? Ugh."

"Is _that_ why Caspar used to run laps around camp after every battle?"

"Not the only reason," Linhardt says. "Sometimes I had actual healing to do so it didn't matter if he could find a nice spot without any visible dead bodies. Don't change the subject."

Bernadetta sighs and takes a long sip of her tea, perfectly sweetened. Things have been jumbling around in her head so much she isn't even sure where to start, or which part is the problem, or what she wants to happen, and every day she falls a little bit harder for Dimitri's bad jokes and gentle smiles it gets harder to figure out.

"He's not the first person with this kind of memory problem I've...been with," she says. "Though Emile only ever forgot the violent stuff, he always remembered - I don't know. It was good, it was _really_ good, and I thought - I know I should have told him as soon as he told me he forgot, it's just Emile forgot things to protect himself and trying to tell him afterwards was bad for him. I didn't want to - I like him so _much_ , Linhardt."

"This is adorable," he says. "I mean, it's a shame you're suffering, truly, but you should see yourself, it's charming. Do you want to hear your options?"

No, not really. "Yes."

"You can not tell him, and you can decide it's okay to not tell him, and pursue him however it is you pursue the men you like, give him a new sword, or kill one of his enemies, or leave a dead mouse on his doorstep, or whatever they like. You can not tell him, and decide you're not okay not telling him, and keep being casual acquaintances who see each other around Enbarr every so often. You can tell him, and he can decide he's alright with you not telling him earlier, and you can continue with the swords-and-murder courting plan. Or you can tell him, and he can decide he's not alright with you not telling him earlier, and you'll go back to Enbarr and become the kind of casual acquaintances who always find excuses not to be in the same room together."

"Or," Bernie says.

"Or?"

"It can turn out he actually did remember, and hasn't told me because he thought I didn't want to talk about it, and I don't actually have to do any of that?"

"And then you give him a sword and a murder and the two of you get married. Edelgard presides over the wedding, and Hubert cries."

"Saints, what would marrying him even be like?" Bernie asks. "I don't know if he can leave the imperial palace, do I have to live there forever? Do we need special permission from Edelgard every time we want to go anywhere? Is he allowed to have children - will they be prisoners, too, so they can't run off to Faerghus and restart the royal line?"

"Oh, Bernadetta," Linhardt says. "You've _thought_ about this."

"I - don't make fun of me."

"Alright," Linhardt says, expression softening a little. "I'll tell you your real option, instead. You sit down and talk to him about how he feels about not remembering things. Then he can tell you if he'd rather know or not, and you can do whichever thing he says is best for him. You don't have to worry about doing the right thing, just the kindest. Once you've had that conversation, you can tell him you loved how he wielded his lance and want another shot at it, or go ahead and court him however you'd court someone you hadn't already...enjoyed. Between us, I think it will probably go the way you want it to - I don't always notice these things, but Caspar asked why we didn't let you share a room, so I suppose there must be something going on there. He does look at you a lot."

"Oh," she says. "He just likes seeing art get made."

"Sure," Linhardt says, like he's laughing at her. "And no, by the way."

"No?"

"Beast blood isn't an aphrodisiac," Linhardt says. "Whatever else might have been going on, it wasn't that."

"Okay," Bernadetta says, and goes to take another sip of her tea only to find the cup empty. "I - thank you," she says.

"Anytime," Linhardt says, with a soft smile; it's a promise he wouldn't make to just anyone, and Bernadetta tucks it away somewhere, in some hidden corner of her mind where she keeps all the things she wishes she could send back to her younger self.

-

"Oh, wait," Bernadetta says, as Dimitri fastens his pack. "This was with my stuff but I think it's yours."

Dimitri cocks his head, and for a moment Bernadetta thinks he's seen right through her extremely silly pretense, but then he shrugs and holds his hand out for the little bundle. Bernie's heart beats fast and wild in her chest, keeping time with the anxious flutter in her stomach; it isn't usually so big a deal, to give people things - certainly there were no butterflies when she gave Lysithea the sketch from the other day - but it turns out things are different, when it's something that takes so much work. Or when it's for someone she's so - when it's important. But Bernie knows how to handle her anxiety these days, so she just takes a deep breath and hands Dimitri his shirt with what she hopes is a confident smile.

"Isn't this - ah," he says, unfolding it. "You - goodness, this is all by hand?"

Dimitri runs his hands over the seams, sturdy and only a little bit crooked from her occasional attempts to get a few more stitches in after dark, the subtly decorative stitching around the neckline, the soft leather laces that will allow him to wear it open nearly to his navel on especially hot days, the buttons from wrist to elbow on each arm so he can roll the sleeves without tearing, and the sleeping lion resting over the right cuff.

"I - Bernadetta," he says, and doesn't continue. 

"Do you - if there's anything you want me to change, I can."

"No, of course not," he says, and finally tears his eye away to look at her. He's - oh, he's tearing up a little, and that does nothing to calm the furious beating of her heart or the riot in her stomach. "Or, well..."

"Anything," she says.

"The lion is because it was made for me, yes?"

"Right," she says. "You seemed to - the first one, I just thought, because of the Blue Lions, and it seemed like you liked it, so - "

"I love it," he says. "What I mean to say is, certainly your maker's mark should represent the maker, not the recipient."

"Oh," she says. "Well it isn't - "

"I know," he says, and hands the shirt back to her. "But would you, please? We can even - there is nowhere we need to be on a schedule, and I am sure Caspar would like some help clearing trees if we decide not to leave right away."

And so Bernadetta sits on a bench in the back garden, stitching a small flower, then pulling it out, then an arrangement of leaves, and pulling those out, before settling on a sleepy little bear to match the lion on the other cuff, one she always hides somewhere on her own clothes when she makes them. She catches Linhardt watching her from his library window; he wiggles his eyebrows in the direction of Dimitri and Caspar, chopping down overgrown trees with their shirts soaked through with sweat, and Bernadetta rolls her eyes and spends the rest of the morning pretending not to notice him.

When they set out after a hearty lunch, Dimitri's new shirt is tucked carefully away in his pack, folded so the cuff with the sleeping bear is facing upwards as if he couldn't bring himself to stop looking at it, and Bernie has to ride ahead so she can't see the warm smile on his face, the one that makes her feel so full she's afraid she might burst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just don't think we as a fandom have given enough thought to Caspar/Linhardt/Lysithea.


	6. Moonflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri and Bernadetta finally have a certain difficult conversation, go for a swim, and get ready for their return to Enbarr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Don't tell the chapter count but there is an epilogue coming.]
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking around and reading!!

Bernadetta is used enough to people worrying about her - used enough to needing them to - she can hardly be blamed for assuming that’s what’s going on anytime someone seems to be hovering a little. But the more she pays attention, the more she realizes that's not - it isn't worry, that has Dimitri keeping close, sharing his supper, finding excuses to touch her shoulder or back as he leans past, smiling those cautious smiles at her with just a little bit of pink high in his cheeks. In her defense, no one has ever - Emile and Felix were perhaps just as clumsy as Dimitri, but much more direct. Felix asked to court Bernie like he was challenging her to a duel; Dimitri rests his hand gentle at the small of her back and shows her to a quieter spot in the river where she can bathe and wash her clothes without worrying about the current. Emile asked if she needed, um, “tending to”, after a particularly high-adrenaline assassination; Dimitri glances up to see if she’s noticed when he brushes Bear’s mane out in the evening.

It might be easier if he were simply worried, if Bernie could tell herself she would be setting his mind at ease. As it is, sometimes she looks at the tilt of his chin, the curve of his quiet smile, and worries he might kiss her - and given her feelings for him, _worrying_ isn't the reaction she should be having. But if he kisses her before she tells him, there would be so much more to ruin. 

"I've been wondering," she says, graphite loose in her grip over a blank page in her sketchbook as if she actually plans to get anything done tonight. "You said you didn't remember anything from Ailell."

"No," Dimitri says. "It happens sometimes, often when I am - the heat of battle is not good for me."

"I know someone else who has similar trouble," Bernadetta says, "and for him, once he's forgotten something, being reminded of it is...troubling. It can send him right back into that state where he acts without thinking. So I thought - I assumed the same about you, that you would rather not know. But I keep thinking it might have been unfair of me to make that choice for you."

"Hm." Dimitri prods the fire with a long stick, exposes a new chunk of wood so the flames lick higher and a shower of sparks kicks up into the night. "I suppose I've never thought about it. Few people have seen me like that, and for the most part the way they look at me afterwards has told me what I need to know."

"I'd be happy to leave it be, if that's what you prefer," Bernadetta says. "It's just, something happened I think you would want to know about."

Dimitri frowns. "I did not - did I hurt you? I dislike being around people in that state, I have so little control - "

"No," Bernadetta says. "No, I would have - I'm better than I used to be at pretending I'm not afraid, but I'm not _that_ good. You - we - after the battle, we were, um...intimate? Or not - I wouldn't use that word, exactly, it wasn't quite so - "

"Ah," Dimitri says, his cheeks going pink. "We - I see. Did I - you said I didn’t hurt you."

"You didn't, not really," Bernadetta says. "And it wasn't - you were, um, insistent, but there was no...force. I was - it was, um, good. Rough, but I've always - um. That didn't...bother me."

Dimitri isn't looking at her anymore, nor at the fire; his eye is fixed, instead, just over her shoulder, on the place where at least one of his phantoms always seems to be lurking. Tonight Bernadetta can almost feel them, whoever they are, like if she looks up she'll see them standing tall and ominous behind her. So she keeps looking straight ahead, at Dimitri and the play of emotions across his face, the firelight flickering beautiful and golden in his hair, the hunch of his broad shoulders, and she waits.

"That is - thank you," he says, finally, voice low and a little rough. "For telling me."

"I'm sorry I didn't sooner."

He nods at that, and pushes to his feet, crosses to where the horses are quietly grazing and begins rummaging through their things. Bernadetta watches him as she so often does, looking for - something, some sign of his anger or his shame or his upset that will tell her what to do next. But he is calm, as much as he ever is, as he retrieves a torch, and comes back to the fire to light it, and as he stands before her, glowing and regal like the king he never wanted to be and never will.

"I am going for a walk," he says, and Bernadetta just nods. "I will not go far. I am not - I just need to think."

The trees are thin here; if she needs to go after him, if she worries and needs to find him, she'll be able to see the light of his torch from a good distance. And she isn't, for whatever it's worth, worried - Dimitri can more than take care of himself, of course. 

"Okay," she says, and he nods at her, and then he's gone.

Bernadetta lets out a long, slow breath, pushing all the tension that's coiled in her stomach and her shoulders out with it as much as she can. Well. It's out there now, and there's little she can do - Dimitri will feel how he feels, and it might break her heart if he feels he wants nothing to do with her anymore but she's had her heart broken before. She isn't going to return to Enbarr with tear-stained cheeks and Hubert isn't going to poison Dimitri's first meal after they return for whatever it is he did to her; she isn't going to return with a hunched, miserable Dimitri and Edelgard isn't going to quietly ask her to leave, now, so he doesn't have to spend his life imprisoned in a palace with someone who hurt him. Dimitri won't extinguish his torch and sneak away in the night, never to be seen again, nor will he return to the fire in that wild, feral state and decide he would prefer to have no witnesses left to his shame. 

There is nothing to do but sit and wait, but Bernie is terrible at sitting and waiting so she turns to her sketchbook and begins to draw. Tall, slender stems with small leaves, delicate flowers, clustered thickly together and promising a little extra shelter to unsuspecting animals who might think it looks tasty. She colors the shadows in with odd, curving strokes that hint at something beneath, uneven ground formed over the bones of those same unsuspecting animals now fertilizing the plant to make it more tempting to the next foolish rabbit. Bernadetta rarely draws herself but she does so now, looming large in the background as she kneels over her find. And the shadow of a figure behind her, so tall only his legs are visible in the frame, a little ominous even though he's the only one in the picture who has anything to be frightened of. The pencil sketch of Bernie cups her gloved hands around the poison plant, the Kiss Goodnight, and smiles like she's discovered a secret.

The bushes rustle, and Dimitri emerges, torch-first, oddly relaxed - not just for how tense she expected him to be, but for how tense he is even on a normal day. His shoulders are loose, his expression almost serene, and he once again looks over Bernadetta's shoulder but only for a moment before he turns and meets her eyes with his.

"There are full years I do not remember," Dimitri says. "I have guesses about how I lost my eye, but they will never be more than guesses. I have some vague memories of the prison in Fhirdiad, and the things I had to do to escape, but they are small, and muddy, and the harder I try to recall them clearly the muddier they become. There are bits and pieces of the time after, only the violence and none of the context, if there was ever any context. I only began to remember things clearly again some time after Sylvain found me - that's three, nearly four years that are simply gone. Mercedes tells me that's not uncommon, that often in times of extreme unpleasantness the mind will try to protect you from the worst of it. I just hadn't - I have been so consumed for so long by the things I did that were so bad I had to forget, I stopped thinking about what might have been done to me."

"Torture?" Bernadetta asks. She knows so little about what happened, then, other than the few quiet regrets Edelgard has shared with her, often in the aftermath of a nightmare, the people she trusted with things far too important to trust anyone with.

"Or like what we did," Dimitri says, "but with a partner less kind or less...willing than you."

"Oh," Bernadetta says; it hits her like ice water, like falling into a frozen lake. Oh. Of course. "I didn't - I'm sorry."

Something odd and wistful rises in Dimitri's eye, something almost like a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Bernadetta's fingers twitch around her graphite, with the urge to draw the expression she can't quite parse, or perhaps just the urge to do something other than meet his eye and accept his pain.

"It is not what we did," Dimitri says. "Or that it was you. In truth, I - our time together has been...good. You are - I have no objection, I don't - certainly in other circumstances, I would not. These things are - I have little experience, and I don't always - but please, my reaction was not because of you. It has just been some time since I have had to confront the things I don't remember, the time I've lost, and all the things - it was difficult being in Fhirdiad, for the same reason. Not because I do not love my home, or the people who live there now, but because of the things I have lost I can never get back. This is just more of the same."

"I shouldn't have told you," Bernadetta says.

"No," Dimitri says, frowning. "No, I'm glad you did. It is not your burden to bear, not alone. And I had - it was easier, perhaps, to sit in my rooms in Enbarr and pretend all the years before were simply over and done and I would never need to think about them again, but it was not realistic, nor was it...good for me. I am glad I went home, and I am glad for this time with you. It is - to be a prince, a king, is to be a symbol, perhaps even more to be a deposed king living in the palace of the woman who removed him from the throne. You, though, treat me like a person, and it is...refreshing."

"I'm glad," Bernadetta says; that's not quite what she's feeling, exactly, but somewhere in the tangled-up knot of feelings sitting heavy in the pit of her stomach it's probably trying to get through, that she's done something good, that the whole thing hasn't been a waste. "And when we're - when we’re back in Enbarr, you can always - I understand, if you don't, but if you ever want - you can come find me. If you'd like. If you need to, um, be a person."

Dimitri nods.

"I will like that, I think," he says, and dips his torch in the bucket of water set aside to douse the fire. "I am - would you mind seeing to the fire? I think I am too tired to sit up much longer."

Bernadetta, stupidly, almost asks if he feels a headache coming on, as he doesn't often retire to their tent until after she’s asleep, but of course he has other reasons for his exhaustion tonight. She nods, and he smiles, and disappears into their tent. 

-

Dimitri paces the beach in Hrym as restlessly as he did the rocky shores of Edmund, staring out at the vast sea like it has something important to tell him but doesn't quite speak his language. His gray shirt, the one Bernadetta made him, billows in the sea breeze, and his hair whips around his face. Bernadetta wants to offer to braid it for him, or at least bring him a tie so he can pull it back himself, but an old, familiar fear has settled back into her stomach and nothing's as easy as it used to be. So she sits in her blanket on the sand, painting supplies scattered around her but no actual attempt at any painting made, watching Dimitri from under the brim of her sun hat. He bends to roll up his pants, though they're too tight to get much higher than mid-calf, and walks towards the sea, letting the waves roll in and kiss his feet, his ankles, farther and farther until they splash around his folded cuffs. He looks like he might just keep walking until he disappears beneath the waves, to rule over some underwater kingdom that's been meant for him this whole time.

The thought of Dimitri with his hair floating around his face and a crown of shells to replace the one of flowers she'd given him or the one of gold he gave up, is so distracting Bernie doesn't notice him returning to the blanket until he waves a hand in front of her face, laughing a little.

"Are you heat sick?" he asks, so much like Bernie in his inability or unwillingness to find anything but negative explanations for odd behaviors.

"Daydreaming," she says, and smiles at him, partly to reassure him but partly because he himself is smiling so wide it seems to split his face in two and it's impossible to look at that and not be happy herself.

"Ah," he says. "Of course. Look!"

Dimitri drops a handful of...things...on the blanket next to her, a small pile of shells and rocks and bits of wood and odd glass, frosted over and worn smooth by the waves. The sort of treasures she would have collected toddling around the Aegir beaches in her childhood, and he's as proud of them as she was then. She sorts through them, broken shells that shine iridescent in the sunlight, a rock almost the exact size and shape of her palm and so smooth holding it makes her feel oddly calm, some pieces of brightly colored glass that must have come from something like a window meant for some overseas chapel, lost to the bottom of the sea.

"I thought you might - ah, I don't know, exactly. You make so many things, I thought - "

"These would be pretty buttons," Bernie says, looking at the shells. "Not that I know how to make buttons, but I bet I could learn."

Dimitri nods, apparently satisfied, and Bernadetta turns the warm rock over and over in her palm, glad to have something to fidget with. Dimitri is so close, and so brilliant in the sunlight, and smiling so broadly, in the shirt she made him with the lion near one cuff and the bear near the other, and he has been a little distant since she told him about Ailell and it isn't fair for her heart to beat so fast and so loud knowing whatever flirtation they had is likely - 

Bernie is even more glad for the rock, for something to hold on to, when Dimitri leans in - folding the brim of her sun hat back with his forehead - and kisses her, just a quick, chaste press of his dry lips to hers that takes her breath away more suddenly and thoroughly than being dropped on the ground by a demonic beast from high over its head. It must show on her face when he pulls away, because in the space of a breath (where a breath would be, if she could breathe) his expression goes from sweet and determined to furrowed in concern.

"I - was that - "

"Yes!" she says, a little too quickly, a little too loud, but it's worth it for the way he smiles.

"I thought it would be, ah, nice," he says, "to have one I remember."

"Just one?"

Dimitri laughs and leans in again, for another sweet, dry brush of his lips, and another, and another, until Bernadetta realizes he isn't going to do anything else unless she shows him. When his lips brush hers again she throws her arm around the back of his neck and holds him there - as if she could hold him in place, really, but the suggestion seems to be enough - so she can deepen the kiss, slide her lips against his until they part with a gasp. Oh, he's so _sweet_ , tilting his head to make it easier for her, clenching his hand into a fist where it rests on the blanket next to her leg. His forehead bumps her sunhat again and again, and she fumbles with the knot keeping it in place while trying not to break the kiss but she can't quite manage, just keeps pulling it tighter and tighter until she gives up and decides it's worth the minor discomfort if she can just keep kissing him. Dimitri apparently disagrees; he reaches up himself with one of those big broad hands and yanks at the leather tie until it - oh, it snaps, and the hat goes tumbling backwards.

"Wait," she gasps, pushing her hand against his chest; he only backs up enough for her to speak, so close their lips brush when she does, which makes it _very_ hard to think. It's windy, though, and she doesn't want to lose it. She twists around and fumbles until she manages to grab it, and Dimitri finally sits back, frowning.

"Oh," he says, and reaches for the broken tie. "I didn't - I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Bernie says. The hat itself is fine, as pretty as ever, just needs a new length of leather cord threaded through. She can add beads or something, maybe, a little reminder that she had to fix it up herself and why. Not that she'll forget this, but. "Easy enough to fix."

"I - good," he says, but he doesn't look at her, or stop running his thumb over the broken edge, or stop frowning, and Bernadetta unwinds her arm from around his neck.

"I can have it good as new in just a minute," she says. "It wasn't anything important."

"Not this time," Dimitri says, and - ah. Of course, as careful as he is - at least he drops the cord and looks at her, even if she said the wrong thing, and smiles a weak little half-smile that's almost reassuring. "I should - "

"Of course," Bernadetta says, when he stands instead of finishing his thought; she knows better than anyone that sometimes all you can do is run away. Dimitri turns and walks back towards the water, bending to pick up something interesting on his way, and Bernadetta lets out a long, slow breath and casts around for something to do to keep her mind from coming up with the thousand terrible outcomes of this little indulgence.

There are scraps of leftover fabric in her pack, and she lays one of the bigger ones out on the blanket - now covered in sand from Dimitri's feet - so she can pile up the treasures Dimitri brought her into a bundle. She pulls the broken cord free of her hat and uses it to tie the bundle securely, then finds the last of the leather she used for Dimitri's shirt lacing to replace it. When she looks up again, Dimitri has wandered nearly out of sight, standing far enough down the beach the waves lap at his rolled cuffs again, and Bernadetta watches the wind whip his hair around his face and touches her fingers to her lips.

-

Dimitri kisses her again a few nights later, on an outcropping overlooking the sea. It takes him some time to work up the nerve, so by the time he finally presses his lips to hers Bernadetta is wound tight and shivery with anticipation. He deepens the kiss on his own this time, a quick learner, but she gets another of those soft, surprised gasps when she slips into his lap to make it easier.

"Alright?" she asks.

"Of course," he says, and smiles. "You're better at this than Felix was."

Bernadetta laughs and leans in for more, teases her tongue at the seam of his lips to make him sigh for her. He tastes a little like the stew she threw together for dinner when they finally tired of the beach, and a little like the tea they had with it, and the clumsy scrape of his teeth makes her tingle all the way down her spine. The hair at the base of his neck is tangled from the wind and textured from the salt in the air, and he makes a needy little noise when her fingers catch in a knot and she accidentally pulls a little, and Bernie could kiss him forever. 

Or at least until he grips her arms too tightly and she gasps - not even so much because it hurts as because her body _thinks_ it does and makes everything better, sharper, more.

"Oh," he says, pulling away and dropping his hands. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she says, but that isn't enough for him because when she leans in again he turns away. Bernie bites her lip and tries not to sigh, or pout, as she slides off his lap and returns to the log she'd been sitting on. Her painting of an interesting herb they'd seen earlier that day sits half-finished where she left it for more important things, and it's both simple enough to finish with her head swimming and likely to calm her down so she can sleep without that particular ache between her thighs keeping her up. She dips her brush in the water, and the paint, and then pauses to lean over and kiss Dimitri's forehead, creased with worry as he watches her.

"You're upset," he says, and Bernadetta shakes her head so hard her hand moves, too, splashing a little green paint onto her traveling pants. 

"No, no," she says. "I'm just - you're very - I, um, like kissing you very much. And of course we should - however slowly you want to move, that's fine! I just - when we stop, I either need a moment to, um, collect myself, or I need some private time in the tent."

"In the - ah." Dimitri's eye goes a little wide, his cheeks just a touch more pink than when she was kissing him, and a smile that would be quite obnoxious on anyone else finds its way to his soft lips. "You - ah."

"And I don't - I'm not fragile," Bernadetta says. "You don't need to stop just because - if there's other reasons, that's fine! But you won't hurt me, not really. I don't - I don't break easily."

Bernadetta addresses that to her painting, so much braver than she used to be but not quite enough to tell someone as beautiful as Dimitri he should be kissing her more, holding her tighter. Easier to focus on the bright, sharp leaves that need such precision to outline, though Dimitri is quiet for so long Bernie begins to worry a little, and then a lot, and maybe she wouldn't if she were looking at him, watching the emotions play over his face. Unless looking at him would make it more obvious she should be worrying, because, oh, maybe he remembers she told him she liked when he was rough in Ailell, and between that and this he's assuming some things about her, and he doesn't _like_ those things, and - 

"I know," Dimitri says. "That you aren't fragile, I mean. I have seen you - I am aware. I have - I did not take a weapon when I escaped from Fhirdiad, I was in no state to think of it, and as far as I can piece together, I simply didn't bother with one until Sylvain found me."

Bernadetta does look up then, to find him looking not at her but at his hands, long fingers and knobby knuckles and broad palms, warm and calloused and scarred and capable of lighting Bernadetta's whole body up with just a brush of her cheek, her shoulder. Oh, she isn't any good at this, so used to the things that still upset her about the war, or the things she's learned upset Edelgard or Ferdinand or Hubert she never thinks before she stumbles into something that hurts Dimitri. 

"You don't - "

"I remember so little," Dimitri says. "I have...tried to sit down and put it in some kind of order, and though that thoroughly escaped me it was, I think, still helpful. It's all - flashes, really, brief and more than a little disorienting, and I cannot imagine all told those flashes make up more than a week or so of time. But they are all - I am capable of so much violence, Bernadetta. And not all of it against people who meant me harm, some of them were merely in my way. The things I have done, the lives I have taken with nothing but my hands - I don't doubt what you can take. I simply do not wish to inflict any more pain than I already have."

He looks up at her then, eye wide and a little glassy, mouth drawn tight and brows furrowed; at her, and then at the presence so often behind her, over her shoulder, and Bernadetta sets her painting aside and slides off the log to sit next to him. She leans against his side and he shudders a little, lets out his breath in a miserable, strangled sob, and Bernadetta reaches to rest her hand, small and soft, over his, pushing her fingers into the spaces between his. 

"You don't have to," she says. "I'm sorry, I didn't - "

"No," he says. "I should have - ah. Well. I - surely you no longer feel the need to retire to the tent for some private time, so that's one problem solved."

Bernadetta laughs, even though she wants to cry, and turns her face into his shoulder so if he looks at her he won't be able to see the mess of a face she's likely making as she struggles between the two. He is warm and solid and strong, his hand trembling a little beneath hers, and she squeezes tight and stays there, right where she is, until the fire has nearly burned down to nothing so he knows he won't drive her away.

-

"Oh," Bernadetta says, when she catches a glimpse of something over Dimitri's shoulder. "Oh, _look_."

Dimitri can't, really - it's over his right shoulder, and between the missing eye and the stiffness of his scarred shoulder it would be impossible. Bernadetta is already clambering over his lap when she thinks of that, though, ruining the cozy little nest of blankets and body heat they made to kiss and cuddle while the fire died down to crawl after an especially interesting flower. 

"What - " he says, and then there's rustling. "Oh."

"Moonflower," Bernadetta says, almost reverent. It really only grows wild in southeastern Adrestia, nowhere near Varley, and Hubert doesn't like the poison it makes so he doesn't keep it in the imperial poison garden. Garreg Mach used to have some in the greenhouse, apparently, until some students learned of its hallucinogenic properties and dared each other to eat some. It was all long gone by Bernadetta's time.

Dimitri doesn't respond, but that's alright. Bernadetta kneels there next to the luminously pale flowers and takes a deep breath, letting the perfume fill her lungs. Large, pale moths flutter around plants a little farther away, not so close to a big, scary Bernie, safe from the poison so they can spread its pollen wherever they go. Bernadetta closes her eyes for a moment, a little bit - it's silly, but a little overwhelmed at the sight of it. Like seeing the pitcher plants at Garreg Mach when she'd only ever had books before and thinking maybe, possibly, attending the academy wouldn't be so bad, or the day Dedue's gift of poisonous plants culled from Cornelia's wretched garden arrived in Enbarr and Hubert came to find her to help with them. Nobody understands, not really, but Bernie is a strange little plant herself and knowing other odd, creepy, unmarriageable plants can thrive somewhere means maybe she can, too.

Bernadetta never put much stock in the goddess, not when her father could write impassioned pleas about the state of the church in Adrestia with Bernadetta bound to a chair in her bedroom; she takes her signs where she can get them. The moonflowers quietly glowing so close to where they set their camp, where she threw a blanket over Dimitri's shoulders and kissed him...it already feels good, feels right, like something inside her clicks into place when he puts an arm around her, but a little extra sign is always nice.

"Here," Dimitri says, quiet like he's trying not to startle her, and when Bernadetta opens her eyes he's placing her sketchbook and graphite down next to her. "I'll stoke the fire, I assume you'll be up for a while?"

"I - oh!" Bernie says. "Thank you, I - um, yes, probably."

"I'll make tea." Dimitri leans in to kiss the crown of her head, and she can feel the gentle curve of his smile against her hair. Bernadetta's heart pounds like it's trying to escape, like it wants to pop out through the top of her head and get a kiss itself, and when Dimitri leaves her to draw in peace she has to take a moment just to breathe again before she can even pick up her tools.

-

Bernadetta sighs and tips onto her back to float for a while, letting the warm sun and the cool water compete over her skin. Autumn is beginning to creep in around the edges of summer, red and gold leaves peeking out every now and then just to let them know it's coming, and before long the rivers will be too cold to enjoy like this, especially as the breeze gets colder and the sun seems farther and farther away, but for now the weather is perfect. And they'll be back in Enbarr well before autumn comes for real, anyway, so Bernie won't have to worry about it getting too cold to bathe. 

Anxiety starts to bubble up in Bernadetta's chest, like it does every time she thinks of Enbarr lately. It's a quiet anxiety, the sort that used to just be background noise every moment of her life, but harder to ignore the braver she gets about everything else. There isn't even really anything to worry about - she'll be happy to see Edelgard and Ferdinand and Hubert again, to sleep in her own bed in her own room, to have her work table and writing desk and easel, to be surrounded by her things and looking out familiar windows at familiar views. But she was supposed to - she hasn't - how long after returning will she start to feel restless again, useless, like all the things she's good at are either silly or no longer needed? There are already people in the palace who can cook and mend things, make new clothes, tend the gardens, and it doesn't matter that Bernie can kill a demonic beast on her own or assassinate someone in a crowded house without notice anymore. It's enough, out here, that Dimitri likes her paintings and thinks her embroidery is clever, but -

Leaves crunch, a twig snaps under a boot, and Bernadetta rights herself quickly, feet finding purchase on the silty bottom of the river so she can hide her nakedness under the water. It's only Dimitri, but of course they haven't - this isn't a line they've crossed yet, and for all Bernie knows he could have just forgotten where she was and meant to take his own bath. She stays crouched, and conceals her breasts with her arm, as he approaches.

"Ah, hello," he says, looking very determinedly at her forehead.

"Hi," she says, and he looks around a little helplessly until his eyes land on her clothes, laid out on a rock, and snap back to her forehead as if he's been caught looking somewhere he shouldn't.

"I didn't - I wasn't sure if this would be alright. And then I thought it would be strange if it wasn't, if we have already - "

"We were both wearing clothes then," Bernadetta says, but she moves her arms away from her breasts, lets them float at her sides so he only needs to look down to see whatever he wishes. Instead of looking down, though, he turns almost entirely away, cheeks pink.

"Ah," he says. "Of course. I can - "

"Dimitri," she says, truly trying not to laugh at him in his obvious discomfort but not entirely succeeding. "Come join me, if you want to."

"I - alright," he says, and still doesn't look at her as he begins to undress. Bernie doesn't pay him the same courtesy, watching the slow reveal of his scarred back, his broad shoulders, pale skin marked over and over again by war. His hair, when he shakes it loose from his collar, hangs just below his shoulder blades, limp and tangled. His legs have their fair share of scars, though fewer than his upper body, mostly older, and blurred by the fine blonde hair that grows around them. Dimitri is breathtakingly muscular but it's the scars, really, that make him look to Bernadetta like he's been carved from marble, all the nicks and cuts of a sculptor who worked too fast, careless movers, the normal wear of time. Lost in a dusty attic of a grand old manor for years, perhaps, until a curious daughter generations past finds him under his dusty coverings and brings him back to life with her careful touch.

The last thing he removes is his eye patch, and for that Bernie does look away; he's changed it in front of her before, switching the usual fine leather for something more comfortable or discreet, and she's looked away then, too. There's nakedness and then there's...something beyond, too vulnerable for Bernadetta to quite wrap her head around when she's never really felt it herself. She watches the water ripple around a large rock a little ways down until Dimitri is so close she can feel him, warm even through the chill of the water. He hasn't put his eye patch back on, and Bernadetta - she's worked with Hubert, she's killed people with Emile, she knows the difference between a quick, clean wound and a slow, miserable, painful one.

"Would you feel better if I covered it up?" Dimitri asks, and she flushes.

"No," she says. "I'm sorry, just - you don't remember it?"

"Not at all," he says. "Even in my nightmares, my eye is either there or it isn't. I'm sure that's a blessing."

Bernadetta doesn't know what to say so she just steps forward and wraps her arms around him, rests her head against his broad chest so she can hear his heartbeat. He's warm, always so warm even if for now it's just because she's been in the water longer, and when he returns her embrace she feels like nothing in the world could get through the safe little bubble he holds her in. Which isn't - she wanted to give _him_ comfort, and yet.

"Let me wash your back," she says, because he's running one of his big hands up and down hers and it feels so nice she wants to return the favor. When she looks up Dimitri has an eyebrow cocked at her, like he thinks it's odd to invite someone to join your bath and then actually continue bathing, but what does he know, anyway. Bernie pulls away, difficult as it is to leave the warmth of his arms, and whether he thinks it's strange or not he turns his back to her while she reaches for the soap.

It's been a long time since Bernadetta could just reach out and touch someone's skin, feel it against her own, luxuriate in having another human so close they could be sharing breath, blood, heartbeats, and it's important, of course it's important, that it's Dimitri, but she's not sure it's him in particular that has her head spinning like she's had too much wine. Nothing has ever been cleaner than the broad expanse of Dimitri's back is now but she sweeps her soapy hands over it again and again, like if she stops touching him she'll die, until all the suds have washed away and she's just splashing him with water. She's so focused on how good it feels to touch him she doesn't even notice when he turns around until her hand grazes the knotted, gnarled scar high on his chest.

"Oh," she says, and laughs a little. "I - "

Dimitri's good at kissing her by now, knows well what she likes, but this is different, hungrier, a shade of the way he kissed her when he was soaked in blood and out of his mind. His teeth scrape her lower lip and she shivers, leans against him a little heavier; he pushes his tongue into her mouth and she moans for him, teases it with her own. There's no good reason to stop touching him so she doesn't, letting her hands explore the shape of his chest, hard muscles and smooth skin and scars, so very many scars. Bernadetta has her fair share, of course, everybody does, but hers are so few she can tell the story of each of them, remember the times and places she received each one - even without the lapses in Dimitri's memory she doubts he could account for anywhere near this many. But that isn't - saints, there are so many better things to be thinking about right now.

Like the way Dimitri's breath catches when she brushes her fingers through the coarse hair leading down from his bellybutton, groans when she skims fingertips over the stiff peak of his nipple, how he shifts his stance little by little so he's always leaning in to her touch, as greedy for it as Bernie is. She has to reach one arm around his neck and hold on when he leans a little too hard, pushes her backwards a step or two, but that just - he seems to realize, then, it's possible to get closer, and wraps his arms around her waist to pull her in. 

Bernadetta tips her head so he can kiss her more deeply, though her neck is beginning to ache from the angle. She'll gladly spend the next few days unable to look side to side in exchange for this, the slip of their bodies against each other and the hungry thrust of his tongue, the noises he makes in the back of his throat and the way he holds her so close they just might fuse into one person. But it's not a trade she ends up having to make - with a growl that sends a sweet, shivery thrill up Bernadetta's spine Dimitri breaks their kiss, tightens his grip, and hoists her up so their faces are level. No, so she's a little higher than he is, so she can cup his face in her hands and tilt him up to kiss him more, more, this is so much more comfortable but she wasn't ready to be done kissing him. 

Bernie wraps her legs around his waist for support, and that's - oh, that's his cock, thick and hot and hard for her, slipping against the slick ache of her cunt. Bernadetta groans and shifts her hips, grinding against him, and Dimitri bites her lip and starts walking in clumsy, splashing steps. She doesn't know where he's taking her and she doesn't _care_ , isn't sure he can even see where he's going but certainly isn't going to stop kissing him to check. Every step shifts them against each other in a new, delicious way, and by the time he lays her down on - oh, Dimitri, on the dress she'd laid out to dry - she's tingling all the way to her toes.

"You," Dimitri says, like it's a complete thought, and kisses her cheek, her neck ,her throat, crawls backwards to kiss, so far as Bernie can tell, every single inch of her. He maps her body with his lips the way she was mapping his with her touch, a brush over the stiff peak of her nipple that makes her hips jerk, soft kisses to the swell of her breast, the top of her ribs, over the muscles of her stomach and hips and - and - and - ah, down to her ankles, her calves, her knees, her thighs, a lingering kiss over the worst of her scars from a well-aimed lance and then he's just looking at her with that blue, blue eye, damp hair hanging in his face and hunger burning in his expression. "Tell me if I hurt you."

"You won't," she says, trying to spread her legs even wider for him; he frowns, and Bernie reaches down to brush his hair out of his face. "I will. I promise I will."

Even if she didn't know Dimitri had never done this before she would _know_ , but that hardly matters. He licks over her cunt in broad, wet strokes, clumsy and eager and groaning low in his chest for her. Bernie gasps and bucks her hips, chasing the sensation, and he grumbles a little and pins her down with those big, rough hands. It just makes her want to move more, his thumbs touching under her bellybutton, his palms curved around her hipbones, strong and steady and as immovable as if she were pinned by rocks. And he doesn't let up on her cunt, either, lapping at her with his broad tongue, shivering heat radiating through her bones from the contact. He's messy, dripping saliva to mingle with her own wetness so she's drenched, so wet she might as well still be in the river. Like this it doesn’t matter how imprecise he is, the eager slip of his tongue more than good enough for Bernie. 

Bernie flails around for something to hold, lands one hand on her poor dress that's going to need another wash and the other on the back of Dimitri's head so she can tangle her fingers in his hair. Not to guide him, though he could clearly use it, just to ground herself, keep from flying entirely out of her skin. His groans vibrate against her, his tongue teasing at her folds as he explores her, and she just feels so _good_ it keeps bubbling out of her in whimpers and gasps she couldn't control if she wanted to. Dimitri holds her so tightly she can barely move but oh thank the saints not tightly enough to bruise so she doesn’t have to make him stop; she kicks at the ground trying to push up, get more, but even holding back he's just too strong for her. 

"Dimitri," she gasps, and again, and he pushes his tongue inside her with a groan so rough it's nearly a growl, and it vibrates all through her, up her spine and to the top of her head and the tips of her fingers and oh she needs, she _needs_. Dimitri fucks her with his tongue, pushing his nose against her so, oh so close to her clit but not quite, and Bernie tears her hand away from the mess of her dress beneath her and reaches down to touch it herself. Dimitri's eye shoots open and he watches her, eye dark and intent, and he slows his tongue while she rubs over her clit a little frantically, bringing herself to her peak so quickly it seems to startle him when she clenches up around his tongue as her orgasm shakes through her - more when her crest activates, ah, ah, ouch, and she comes again before she’s even begun come down from the first.

Dimitri slips his tongue out and licks over her while she comes, tongue slipping around her folds and over her finger and dipping inside again so Bernie feels like she's coming forever, can't quite seem to come down with his hands still pinning her hips and his tongue slick and hot against her. She has to push him away eventually, and more than once, so he stops and she can finally, finally catch her breath. He lets go of her hips - she arches after his hands, a little, chasing the heat and the pressure, but she settles when he arches his eyebrow. He watches her as her breath heaves, looks over the mess she must be with a wild kind of hunger, eyes only lingering on the red marks on her hips for a moment, and Bernie reaches for him.

"It doesn’t,” she says, can’t quite make a whole sentence still trying to catch her breath. “Didn’t hurt. come here.”

Dimitri crawls up over her and - always such a good boy - takes the hint when she pushes at his shoulder and kneels up so she can get a good look at him. Saints, but he's beautiful, all sharp lines and hard muscle, cheeks the same red as the head of his cock and shiny with her come, breathing as hard as she is; maybe he'd let her draw him like this some time. If she could manage drawing on her back, that is, but oh it would be so worth it to find out. This isn't the time for that, though, there are so many more important things to do, like wrapping her hand around the hot, heavy shaft of his cock and watching his eyes flutter shut, his back arch. 

Bernie loves Dimitri's voice, so confident even when he isn't, even more when it's a little roughened by sleep or a long day, and most of all now, when it rumbles right out of his chest in groans so deep they seem to shake the ground beneath her. He is, again, clumsy and unpracticed but oh, so very eager, fucking into the clutch of her fist in sharp little strokes with no rhythm, so needy the drip of his precome is all she needs to slick the way for him.

Dimitri throws his head back and shudders, gasping her name in that sweet, low rumble as he stiffens and comes in a hot rush. Bernie can't help but moan herself at the feel of it, his thighs flexing over her waist, his come splashing over her chin and breasts as he shakes through it for what feels like forever. And oh, how sweetly he relaxes when he's finally finished and she finally convinces herself to let him go, to stop teasing more shivers out of him with the touch of her hand, his shoulders slumping and head lolling forward to show her his sweet, satisfied smile. 

Bernie wipes her hand clean on his thigh and he laughs, a little at first and then more, and more, an infectious kind of laugh that draws Bernie in with it until they're both gasping for air. Dimitri swings his leg over so he can lie down next to her and Bernie cuddles right up against him, smearing the mess of his spend between them in a way that's not exactly pleasant but not quite so unpleasant as to make her move away or keep him from wrapping his arm around her. She nuzzles her face into his neck where he smells of soap and sweat and breathes him in between a few errant giggles, warm and content in the sunshine and in his arms.

-

The road from central Aegir to Enbarr is fairly direct, broad and well-traveled, especially now that troops and supplies move so regularly to and from the capital for rebuilding. A skilled rider traveling by himself on a particularly fast horse can make the trip to Ferdinand's boyhood home from the palace in under three days, provided he starts before sunrise, doesn't rest until well after sundown, and eats his meals on horseback. Of course, the time Ferdinand did that a beloved horse had fallen ill and Ferdinand was more determined than anyone had ever seen him to make good time, but still. It isn't far, and it doesn't take long, and Bernie wonders if Dimitri can tell she's dawdling. 

The sun hits an orchard with a few blossoms still on the trees just the right way and Bernie simply has to stop and paint it, and though it is only midafternoon the painting will take her until it's just about dinnertime and it would be silly to get back on the road for perhaps another hour's travel at most. So they free the horses of their packs, make a fire so they can have tea, and Dimitri works on his sewing while Bernie paints. She's handed over the dress she was going to make when she finished his shirt; it's a simple piece, with long, straight seams perfect for him to practice with, and so far he seems more pleased to be able to return the favor of his new shirt than worried he'll make some irreversible mistake. He's made good progress by the time Bernie finishes painting and starts dinner, smiles so sweetly when she tells him that she has to kiss him and put cooking off for a little while, and after they eat he compliments the shadowy beast she painted hiding between tree trunks and she has no choice but to kiss him some more.

One night Dimitri quietly suggests they push their bedrolls together so he can hold Bernadetta while they sleep, and it is perhaps the most restful sleep Bernie's had the entire trip. When she wakes in the morning he's still there, breath tickling the top of her head, strong arm crossed from her waist to her shoulder like the strap of a quiver, holding her against Dimitri. When she wriggles around in his grip she finds him awake, as he always is before her, and it's impossible to keep from kissing him, mouths sour from sleep but bodies soft and warm and fit perfectly together. The sun is at its highest point in the sky when they finally emerge, and it's well into the afternoon before they get underway. 

Dimitri watches her across the fire on the eighth night of what should have been a journey of seven days, not the way he watches her work as if he's trying to figure out just how her fingers are moving, how she manages to create things, but like he's waiting for something. Bernie arches her eyebrow at him once, over the berries she foraged up for a little dessert, but when he doesn't say anything she shrugs and turns to rearranging the flowers and leaves between her pressing boards.

"If you would like," he finally says, when she hands him the boards and the leather straps to tie them together, "we could head north again, perhaps visit the Academy. Or you could bring me to Varley, I think I would like to see where you grew up."

"I don't," Bernadetta says, too quickly and much too harsh, and sighs when he frowns. "Sorry. Is there - do you not want to go back to Enbarr? I think Edelgard likes me enough not to hang me for going rogue with a prisoner, for a little while at least."

"I'm not the one plotting our course," Dimitri says. "I have been given rein to follow as long as you wish to travel - and I am, of course, ah, enjoying myself quite a bit, with you - so if there is some reason you wish to keep going, we can."

"I - no," Bernie says, and sits next to him while he wraps her boards. "I'm just also...enjoying myself. And I worry - I have trouble being in one place for too long. When someone knows you long enough, it makes it easier for them to - when you stay where you are, people know where to find you, and what makes you weak, and if you get comfortable it hurts more when it gets taken away. But I can’t let Enbarr turn into a place I need to run away from, because this time I don’t have any idea where I’d _go_."

Dimitri gently takes her pressing boards to set them aside and slips his arm around her waist, resting his hand on her hip. She fits so nicely in his arms every single way he tries to hold her, like this is what she’s always been supposed to do.

"You seemed happy in Fhirdiad," Dimitri says. "Sylvain would be pleased to have his favorite author so close at hand, I think, and Dedue and Ashe someone else to enjoy the gardens as they do, and if it is too overwhelming for you I told you once I think Mercedes would be eager to get to know you better, as close as you are with her brother. Perhaps you would like working with the little ones, even, you are so - you do seem to enjoy caring for others. Or, you could go back to Ordelia, something there certainly had your attention long into the nights. Byleth is always trying to entice us back to Garreg Mach to teach, I can easily imagine you explaining poisons to impressionable youths and inspiring the next generation's Hubert or Claude. And, of course, I don't know that you need a destination; traveling like this seems to suit you fine. You can go at your own pace, create whichever beautiful things you wish, try anything that suits your whim."

"Those are all nice," Bernadetta says, and tucks her face against his shoulder so the rest of her words are muffled a little by his shirt. "But you can't leave Enbarr."

Dimitri isn't prone to fidgeting; he moves like a creature on the hunt most of the time, even when he isn't in one of his dark moods - as little movement as possible to avoid giving himself away in the brush, a steadiness to his stance like he might need to strike at any moment, the fluid shifting of his muscles as if running through combat forms. It can be difficult to tell when something has startled him into stillness...but not impossible.

"I," he says, after a long, heavy pause. "Ah. I would - hm."

Bernadetta tilts up to kiss his cheek, though she's short enough and he's turned away enough she only manages the corner of his jaw. He squeezes her hip again and sighs.

"I wouldn't want to hold you back," he says.

"I spent a very long time thinking I wouldn’t ever have any freedom," Bernadetta says. “I don’t give it up easily now. The last time the only thing holding me somewhere was l - was a relationship, it was Felix; you can ask him how that went, if you’re worried whether I’d give it up for you.”

"I - alright," he says, and turns to smile down at her. "Do you have some extra paper? I'll write him a letter now."

"Tell him I'm a better kisser than he is," Bernie says, and Dimitri laughs.

"I don't know," he says, and ducks his head to brush his lips against hers. "You may have to kiss me a few more times so I'm sure."

-

The morning dawns brilliant and beautiful, the sort of blazing sunrise that burns off all the dew in an instant but settles into a softer warmth as the day goes on. The guard patrols in Enbarr will have just had a shift change, the night watch finally going home to sleep, and the only people on the streets will be farmers bringing their wares to the inns and markets, merchants setting up their stalls, here and there a parent whose only peace can be found on a walk before the rest of the family wakes or a veteran who craves the first light of the sun to chase away dreams of the war. Bernadetta could stand to spend this whole lovely morning snug in Dimitri's arms, but the earlier they ride through the city the less anxious he will be about being seen, recognized, bearing the weight of how people in Enbarr might feel about him, so she leaves the warmth of his embrace for the warmth of the sun's before the temptation becomes too great.

This close to Enbarr Bernadetta can just about see the palace, if she squints, rising from the morning fog like a beacon. She hasn't done much returning home in her life, and as far as she can tell she's always done it wrong. After the attack on Garreg Mach she stood in her room, so terrified of going back to Varley she was unable to pack, until Felix came and found her; she rode to Enbarr to rejoin the Black Eagles with tears clouding her vision and her heart in her throat; stood in the corner at the feast to celebrate the peace talks and saw only what had been changed, what had been ruined; brought Emile to Varley simply to spite her father's ghost. Every home Bernie has found she's left - by choice or by force - without expecting to ever see it again, and when she's seen it again everything has been different. But she doesn't - the soft shadow of the palace in the distance just makes her think of Ferdinand, out for a morning ride before the day's work begins, and Edelgard pouting at the breakfast table about how early it is while insisting she isn't pouting, and Hubert pretending he's only just risen with the rest of them and hasn't been up all night. 

And Dimitri, somewhere, looking at the books he's already read, or out the window at the places he isn't sure he can go, or pacing around his room with a headache talking to his phantoms. Herself, knocking on his door, the boredom and agitation melting from his face when she invites him to keep her company in her rooms, or the garden, or the training grounds, to take the horses out somewhere quiet and peaceful where she can set up her paints and neglect them entirely in favor of sliding into his lap and kissing the autumn chill from his lips.

"The horses are ready," Dimitri says, startling Bernie from her daydreams so she squeaks and spins around. He anticipates it, arm coming up to steady her before she even stumbles. She laughs at herself, and that makes him laugh, and Bernie isn't sure she's found anything she likes better than making him laugh. He tips his head as their laughter fades, searching her face.

"And I am, too," Bernie says, glancing back towards the city in the distance for a moment before returning her gaze to Dimitri, glowing in the early morning sun. "Whenever you are."

He nods, satisfied, and pulls her in for a kiss before stepping away so they can both mount their horses and, together, ride for home.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moons after their return to Enbarr, Dimitri and Bernadetta are settled into the quiet routine of lives lived in the palace rather than on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The promised epilogue!

It's like looking at a different Dimitri entirely, an odd feeling after spending so much time with him. She knows how he sleeps and why he doesn't, the dark moods that plague him and the almost childish silliness of his jokes, the way he sometimes tore their meat into chunks with his bare hands when he thought she wasn't looking and how slowly and patiently he works when he mends his shirts, but she doesn't know how he looks dressed for court. Or, well, she does now. Handsome, of course, but it's not as if he has to work at that; his hair isn't much shorter than when they returned to Enbarr, just the uneven ends trimmed, and it's pulled back into a tidy bun rather than hanging around his face so he can hide behind it if he needs. His coat, in that rich Faerghus blue that looks so good on him, minimizes the broadness of his shoulders and the relative slimness of his waist so he just looks strong and solid, not the sort of man who would rip a demonic beast in half for you but the sort who would spend an afternoon carrying all your heaviest bags of fertilizer from one end of the garden to the other. If - if that were the sort of thing one might want in a man, of course. Dimitri hates this sort of socializing as much as she does but you would never know it to look at him, head up and shoulders square, laughing at some story of Ferdinand's.

Bernie smooths her hands over her skirt, a nervous habit that will just cause it to wrinkle, but she doesn't have her knitting and there's an awful crowd around the drinks so she doesn't know what else to do with her hands. Looking at Dimitri makes her stomach twist up in knots, but looking anywhere else just reminds her how many people are here and that makes her want to run. But she promised, and Edelgard wouldn't have made her promise if she didn't really, really want Bernie here, because Edelgard never asks Bernie to do things without a good reason. Running isn't an option, and gawking at Dimitri all night isn't an option - she doesn't even have her paints here so she can pretend she's only staring because of her art - and so Bernie wrinkles her skirt and looks at the chandelier.

"I'm so sorry," Edelgard says, appearing out of the crowd like an angel, drink in each hand. "I was going to come rescue you sooner but people kept wanting to _talk_ to me."

She hands Bernadetta a drink, and reaches with her newly free hand to smooth out some of the wrinkles Bernadetta's made, and smiles the soft, sympathetic smile she seems to reserve mostly for Bernadetta.

"Oh, you didn't - thank you."

"I know it's a bit much," Edelgard says. "The least I can do is make it a _little_ easier for you. I don't - we always begin by planning something small, and it always turns into this."

She waves her arm in a grand gesture that encompasses the whole room, the press of the crowd, the decadence of the table laid with treats, the freely-flowing wine, as if Bernadetta needs any reminder how much of a spectacle it is.

"Ferdinand's influence?"

Edelgard laughs and takes a sip of her drink. "Partially. And of course once he gets going, Hubert steps in, and somehow they never argue themselves into 'dismantling the nobility shouldn't come with so many grand parties' like I wish they would. But no, it's largely just - too many people who need to be kept happy, most of whom are happiest here."

"I suppose that's what happens when the only nobles in Adrestia who dislike a party don't need any more convincing."

"I suppose so," Edelgard says, and sighs. She surveys the room while Bernie takes hearty sips of the rich, sweet wine, fortifying herself. Only a little longer before she can make her excuses and escape, but it always seems like the last hour is the longest. Before she knows it, the glass is empty, and Edelgard is looking at her with one amused eyebrow raised. "I hate to bring up work, but - "

"You love to bring up work," Bernie says, and laughs. "You just hate that you're at a party instead of _doing_ that work."

"Oh, hush," Edelgard says. "We need to send an ambassador to Brigid; I've been putting it off because, well, it's been easy to get by without. For a long time we've just had Dorothea sign anything that needed Fodlan's approval - not exactly the most ethical, but it's not as if Petra or I would try to get anything past each other that way. Or that we don't know each other well enough to notice if one of us did. But since the wedding, of course, well, one queen of Brigid can't sign something the other one drew up. It's a - the problem is, the post requires very little _work_. Most of the people who want it know that Petra and I are close, that we negotiate well and quickly, and that there's far more free time to sit on the beach than work to be done. I don't want to give it to someone who wants the post for the wrong reasons."

"The people of Brigid would just think they were being taken advantage of," Bernadetta says. "If you got the benefit of their queen and troops and in return sent them someone useless."

"Exactly," Edelgard says. "And on top of that, those who want the position will think of it as a reward, so whatever choice I make will send a message about what sort of Emperor I am and what behavior I reward. Unless, of course, Petra requests someone specific, in which case I am only honoring the wishes of my closest ally."

"Is there anyone Petra might ask for? Or, at least, someone no one would question her asking for even if someone perhaps sent her a raven with the suggestion?"

"Funny you should ask," Edelgard says. "I had a message from Petra just this morning with the answer to exactly that question. You liked Brigid when you visited during the war, didn't you?"

"I...did," Bernie says.

"I know Dimitri doesn't like the heat much," Edelgard says, "but he might get used to it after a while, don't you think? He handles the weather here better than he used to, so perhaps if he had some reason to spend a year or two in Brigid he'd adjust to that as well."

"He might. And he seems to like the beach. The sea, at least."

"I feel I only just got you back," Edelgard says. "And you've been doing fine work so far - I know it's not in your nature to think highly of your accomplishments, but the fact you've been able to do anything at all to smooth relations with Seteth and the faithful of Sothis given, well, everything, is remarkable. But I think you'd be happier in Brigid with Petra and Dorothea than here having to listen to angry people complain about how hard I am on the church only to turn around and listen to me complain about how all these people expect me to be easier on the church when my feelings have been made quite clear, don't you?"

"I've - I would - you had Hubert tell her to ask for _me_?"

"I might have," Edelgard says. "But I didn't need to. She wrote that if only someone like you would be willing to take the job, we could save ourselves all the trouble of finding someone suitable. Of course I don't want you to say yes just to save us any trouble, and if you don't like the idea I'd be more than happy to keep you to myself."

"You said - Dimitri can't go to Brigid, can he?"

"The treaty is fairly generous," Edelgard says. "It isn't - the point wasn't to keep him a prisoner forever, you know. If he went back to Fhirdiad, it would be far too easy for a rebellion to form around him as a figurehead, or for people to assume he was acting as the real power behind the council, and he wouldn't want that any more than I would. I want what Dimitri wants, and I believe Claude does, too. I told him - I made him a promise, at Gronder, that I would see him happy if it killed me, and I suppose I have you to thank that he's over there smiling like that and yet I'm not cold in the ground."  
"You don't have to - I don't need - you suggested we travel together," Bernie says, looking at her glass like more wine will magically appear and give her an excuse to gather her words, to be blushing like this. Praise from Edelgard has always - she's never been good at it. "You knew."

"I hoped," she says, as frank as she ever is. "The two of you are both so private, it can be hard to tell when you're lonely and when you're just alone. I hoped you might like being alone together, so I would know when not to worry."

"You don't need to worry about me," Bernadetta says, and Edelgard shrugs.

"I worry about everybody," she says, with a tired smile, and looks away; Bernie follows her gaze to Dimitri, telling some story that has the small crowd around him - Ferdinand included - enraptured. Hubert stands off to the side, doing something significant with his eyebrows, and Bernadetta realizes it's a message at the same moment Edelgard sighs. "Duty calls."

The crowd swallows Edelgard up as she walks away, as crowds do, so only the tips of her horned crown are visible peeking out between elegantly dressed shoulders here and there. Bernadetta glances hopefully towards the drinks table, but there are enough people still milling around she'd have trouble getting a drink even if she were a little less averse to people. But she realizes, as she considers her options, that the furious beating of her heart and the fluttering in her stomach aren't nerves that need to be calmed - she's excited. Bernie's been - she can't complain, not really, about being back here, the little bit of work she's been doing to make herself useful, rides with Ferdinand, mornings with Hubert and late nights with Edelgard and all the rest of the time, when he's up to it, with Dimitri and his soft smiles and quiet affection. It would be easy enough to just keep going, to finish tying up all the loose ends going without a Minister of Religion after a war against the church created, find another job that suited her, move Dimitri into her rooms for real or move into his, have a little wedding in the garden, maybe, retire to a cottage on the little bit of Varley land she kept for herself when Edelgard steps down as Emperor. It would be easy, and it would be _nice_ , quiet and calm and, in her mind, all tinted with the rosy light of dawn and hazy like the morning mist. 

But oh, there's so much she hasn't _seen_.

Across the room, Dimitri's finished his story and his little crowd of admirers have moved on to something else, have shifted away from him just slightly and he hasn't bothered to move with them, to stay interested. He catches her gaze, eye the same blue as his jacket so it glows like a gem picked out to match, and tilts his head towards the door in a silent plea. Bernadetta nods, eagerly enough it makes him laugh, and turns to slip away through a little secret passage of statue nooks and heavy curtains so no one will stop to talk to her. It wouldn't do to be delayed on her way to meet Dimitri in the hall, after all - they have so much to talk about once they retire to their rooms; an entire new adventure to plan.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please come join me in Dimidetta Hell, aka [my twitter](https://twitter.com/funnwhimsy).


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